


Enemy of My Enemy

by rosalind25



Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: F/M, Season 2 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-05 13:28:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 79,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11014398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosalind25/pseuds/rosalind25
Summary: Beset on all sides by lies and betrayals, Guy of Gisborne must look for allies in unlikely places.A Season 2 AU. The prologue is set in 2.3, then the story shifts to the end of 2.6.





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: all BBC Robin Hood characters and the show are the property of the BBC and Tiger Aspect Productions

Lulled by the rocking motion, Meg dozed, her head pillowed on the cushion she’d placed between her head and the side of the carriage.

She hadn’t had much sleep.

Two new suitors in the past week. One at last night’s meal, foisted on her without warning by her father and her uncle. They’d no doubt feared she might have skipped off somewhere and avoided the introduction, if she’d known; they were probably right.

This one, Sir Lionel something-or-other, had been more interested in the contents of his goblet than in her. Which didn’t bother her at all, not after the efforts of the younger one presented to her earlier in the week. Clean-shaven, with an angular face, Sir Sebastian had spent the entire evening trying to impress her with his talk of what was happening across the Channel. He was full of wild tales and bad poetry, which he said was all the rage at the Angevin court. The kindest interpretation she could put on this was that it was second-hand, received from a friend recently returned. She didn’t know why he bothered with his suit. It was clear from the way he spoke that he wished he could take himself off to foreign courts himself. Parental pressure, no doubt. She’d felt some sympathy for him, but not enough to make her like him. By the end of the evening, she’d asked to be excused. She’d struggled with an evening in his company; the thought of a lifetime had been daunting.

Her father hadn’t been pleased, and had considered staying another day. But Meg had had enough, both of suitors and of her cousins’ teasing. She was more than ready to be home. She would accept her father’s tirades, or his bouts of silent disapproval, as the price of some relative peace and quiet.

“Ouch….”

The cushion slipped then, and Meg’s head butted sharply against the edge of the window as the carriage jolted to a halt. Huffing, she tossed the cushion aside and sat up.

“What’s going on?” she asked, hearing shouts, and the clang of striking blades.

“Pull to the side,” Meg heard her father command.

“Where are we?” she asked.

Her maid pulled the curtain aside, and Meg climbed out onto the step…this was Locksley. Her father had said it would be quicker this way, but instead the road was blocked by a group of archers, who had their bows trained on the sheriff’s guards. Beyond this, Meg saw the oddest sight: a man, covered head to foot in metal, in full combat with another. The fight surged across road and yard, the two men mauling, shoving, swinging with vicious sweeps any makeshift weapon they could lay their hands on.

The taller one, the one in metal….surely the sheriff’s lieutenant, Guy of Gisborne? Which meant the other….

“Who’s that, do you think?” she asked.

Esther shrugged. Meg dropped lightly down, asking the man who stood nearest.

“Robin Hood, of course. And Guy of Gisborne. _To your right!_ ” he shouted, pressing forward to see better.

The villagers here blocked Meg’s view. She tried to push through, but stood in a pile left by a horse that coated her ankle. The smell was appalling. She ran back to the carriage, counting on the fight to keep everyone’s attention focused. Behind the carriage, Meg peeled off her hose, and looked around, unsure what to do with them.

Shouts then, and roars of laughter: Meg could smell the distinctive odour of lit pitch.

“Tell your men to withdraw, Sheriff!” she heard the outlaw yell.

Desperate now to see what was going on, Meg dropped her hose on the ground and in bare feet pushed and shoved her way to the front.

“My lord! Please!” she heard.

She finally saw what was happening; it was indeed Guy of Gisborne, his head being submerged in a trough of water. The outlaw gave no sign of showing mercy.

“You, er, seem to have overestimated Gisborne’s importance to me,” replied the sheriff.

Crucial seconds passed. No one was doing anything. Meg watched as the sheriff’s master-at-arms struggled beneath the surface. Eventually, Hood let him up for air. Pity leapt in Meg’s heart. She knew this man was the sheriff’s lackey, hated and feared, but to face such humiliation? Was there no one who would speak for him?

“Not even you would let him die,” the outlaw challenged.

“Erm, I have everything I could want.” Vaisey gestured at a bag held by the man next to him.

Provoked, the outlaw shoved Gisborne under again. Meg couldn’t stand it; he would drown, if this went on much longer. Could no one see that?

Apparently, one person could.

“Let him live.” The Lady Marian had slipped quietly from her place on the side-lines, and held a dagger up against a burly Moor. Meg had no idea why; from his apron, he must be the blacksmith.

“Who?” said the sheriff.

“Guy.”

“Marian, what are you doing?” asked the sheriff, his tone genuinely perplexed.

Meg stopped listening, too preoccupied with how long Gisborne was being held under water. Finally, he was allowed up for air.

“Oh! My Lord! Please!”

Meg saw the expression of lazy disinterest in the sheriff’s eye.

“Let him die.”

Under again. The sheriff and Marian, back to bargaining.

Enough was enough.

Ignoring the sharp prick of stones on her bare feet, Meg sprinted. With no thought for her dignity, she clambered onto the edge of the tub and aimed a kick at the outlaw. Caught by surprise, he went down. Meg overbalanced, falling backwards into the dirt. Water splashed over her as Gisborne clambered out and fell, coughing and moaning.

Before Meg knew what was happening, the outlaw had leapt up. He ran to where the Lady Marian held the smith hostage.

“I’ll take that,” she heard him say.

Meg was dimly aware of negotiations continuing between Vaisey and Hood. But she was more concerned with the man still sputtering water beside her. He hauled himself up and lurched away; Meg, who couldn’t care less about rocks and smiths and whatever else they were discussing, trailed the master-at-arms, expecting her father to come for her at any moment. But she didn’t care. Gisborne’s piteous condition tugged at her heart.

He stumbled into the manor’s courtyard, where two servants began helping him remove the wet armour. Gisborne’s eyes were red-rimmed and defeated, and his hair hung down in wet, stringy strands. Meg stopped by the entrance, uncertain now what to do. She had no business here.

“Wait, girl.” Meg stopped, and turned back, but she didn’t enter the courtyard. “You saved my life. I’m grateful.”

His voice rasped from coughing up water. Meg, emboldened, walked into the courtyard.

“Well, it seemed like everyone else had too many agendas,” Meg observed. “I thought you needed someone to….”

“What’s that smell?” Gisborne interrupted, his nose wrinkling.

Meg looked down, as did he; mortified, Meg remembered her bare feet, and she saw now that the muck hadn’t only reached her hose. It was spattered across the hem of her skirt as well.

“Perhaps you should have gone in the tub instead of me,” the master-at-arms said gruffly.

Meg glanced up; was he making a joke, at a time like this? She had no time to consider this further, because then the Lady Marian arrived, and his attention was diverted. Whilst she would have listened to their conversation her father also arrived at that moment, hauling her away by one arm.

As they went out, Meg glanced back over her shoulder at the neat, poised figure of Lady Marian, while here she was making an ignominious exit, odour and all. Her face heated with embarrassment. Gisborne, still peeling off his damp armour, glanced over at her. Blue eyes met blue. A small smirk lifted one corner of his mouth.

_Fine. How to make an impression._

But she found, as Lord Bennett half-dragged her along, making noises about behaving like a hoyden and her general lack of propriety, that she didn’t really mind.

_I’m glad to entertain him. Perhaps it will make him feel better, if someone else is humiliated too._

Or so she told herself. To be honest she did wish, as her father bundled her back into the carriage, that the hem of her skirt hadn’t smelled quite so bad, and that she hadn't looked quite so foolish. She was nineteen years old, for heaven's sake; she wasn't a child, as the parade of her suitors made abundantly clear.

For not a single one of them would she have cared how she looked. But she found that, for this one time, she did.

                           


	2. Snares

_Six weeks later_

Sitting there, docile, with her arms about his waist, and her nostrils filled with the smell of leather. A competent horsewoman, yet forced to sit meekly behind Guy, outwardly grateful for his protection. Subjected to the sheriff’s snide mockery…. _sweet_ , he’d taunted, _very sweet_.

_This is what it would have been like, how I would have had to behave, if we'd ever wed,_ thought Marian.

This wasn’t entirely fair. Guy had come for her - the sheriff, for his precious Sussex – and Marian knew that she should be grateful. But much as she’d hated Winchester’s possessiveness in the carriage, she’d had no doubt Robin would come. She stifled a sigh. If only he’d been on time to rescue her. How much rather she’d be with him in the forest, right now, snatching what moments they could before she had to return to the castle, than riding sedately here behind Gisborne on this damn horse.

Their mounts clattered into the yard of an inn, interrupting her thoughts.

“What are we doing? Why are we stopping?” she demanded.

“We can’t be seen returning with you to the castle,” Guy explained. “I’ll come for you later. We’ll receive word Winchester’s carriage was set upon by outlaws, but that you managed to escape.”

Marian could see the sense in this; their role in Winchester’s demise must be kept secret. It gave her pause, as they rode away….could she somehow use this knowledge against the sheriff? Could Robin? But then he already knew, because….

“Are you alright?” came a quiet voice behind her.

She jumped, annoyed and yet thrilled in equal measure. _How does he always do that?_ Robin’s arms slid about her waist; Marian leaned back into his embrace, feeling the scruff of his beard against her face, the warmth of his breath on her cheek.  
Then she remembered how close she’d come to losing him again…watching him feint and tussle with Allan over that vat of oil, it had almost stopped her heart…

And for such a foolhardy course of action. She pushed his arms down and away, and swung to face him.

“What did you think you were doing today?”

Robin frowned, his hands on his hips.

“What do you mean, what was I doing? Infiltrating a nest of traitors, of course.”

“And to what end? What did you think killing them might achieve?”

“Saving the king from their treachery, I’d have thought….”

“...well you didn’t think,” Marian interrupted hotly. “If killing the sheriff would bring the prince’s army down on Nottingham, what do you suppose killing a group of nobles gathered together in his support might do?”

“Nothing. If I’d ripped away his support base in one move, he would have had to be on good behaviour until the king returned.”

This checked Marian; she hadn’t thought of that.

“You don’t know that for sure; it was a terrible risk. And as for that note you left me….” here her voice quavered.

Robin picked up on this, instantly; his gaze softened, and a hand rose to caress her cheek.

“Is that what this is about?” he asked softly. “It’s alright, I’m safe – we both are. And you’re right, maybe I wasn’t thinking straight….but your father told me of Winchester’s plans for you and I…”

Robin’s hand dropped. He turned away; paced to the window, and stood looking out from behind the half-closed shutter. Marian waited, wondering – for it was in his eyes, and in his heart, she was sure - if he’d say the words. Those ones Djaq had once interrupted, as she lay close to death in the cave, or the ones he’d hinted at in his letter. _Mostly for the life, the love we could not have…._

But she was to be disappointed.

“….today I had the chance to change things….” he said instead.

“By becoming a cold-blooded killer?” Marian asked bitterly. “A chance to be the king’s saviour, to play the hero again….”

“No!”

“Then what?”

“Then yes – maybe. Sometimes you have to look at the bigger picture.”

“Even if it meant killing a dozen unarmed men?”

Robin looked at her oddly then, but all he said – in a tight, controlled voice – was:

“Traitors, Marian – don’t forget they’re all traitors.”

They glared at each other a few moments, having reached an impasse of misunderstanding. It was Robin who yielded first.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he said quietly. “Are you alright? Did Winchester touch you?”

“Not in any way that mattered.” Seeing the worry in his eyes, Marian relented. “I wasn’t afraid. I knew you’d come.”

“You are never afraid,” he murmured, coming to her and circling her waist with his arms.

“That’s not true,” she said, looking up at him. “I’m often afraid. Mostly for you.”

“And I for you.”

Robin leaned in, his lips brushing hers, and she gave herself up – for a time – to the fierce relief of having him here, and safe. For a time, as she felt the press of his thighs against hers, and the firmness of his arms about her, it was almost possible to pretend that they could be together, like any normal couple; to forget all the things that were keeping them apart.

Almost. It was Marian who drew back first.

“You can’t be found here,” she murmured. “Gisborne will be coming back for me.”

Robin said nothing. He just rested his forehead against hers a moment and then stepped back, keeping their fingers linked. Something occurred to Marian; she spoke urgently.

“Robin – they didn’t take me with them because they don’t want anyone to know they’ve killed Winchester. Could we use this against the sheriff, let the other Black Knights know that he’s killed one of their own to cause dissent?”

“If only….but we’ve no witnesses. They’d just deny it.”

Robin released her fingers; he moved away.

“I hate this,” she muttered furiously, knowing he’d be gone any moment, back into the forest.

“You know what I wish…..if there was any way….”

Marian shook her head.

“Wishes are a coin we can’t afford, Robin.”

“Then we are poor too,” he grinned, a teasing glint in his eye. “Which would suit Much; he’d say we deserve to be fed then, because we’re poor.”

“Fool,” she smiled. “Just go.”

And he went, and the day seemed to dim with his going.

“Fool.”

Only this time the insult was directed at herself, for indulging in such a fanciful thought.

                                                -------------------------------------------------------------

“Are you ready, Marian?” Guy asked.

“Yes,” she said, as she followed him out of the inn.

On the threshold, Marian paused: Guy knew he’d surprised her. She’d been expecting him to make her ride into Nottingham on the back of his horse, to relish the role of being her rescuer a little longer.

“Why wouldn’t I bring yours?” He leant down and murmured in her ear. “She needs the exercise, and you like to ride.”

As he watched Marian ahead of him, her gown a splash of red amid the drabness, Guy recalled the vicious satisfaction he’d felt thrusting that blade into Winchester. He’d needed that kill, to take away the taste of his failures that day – his failure to protect Marian, his failure to see through the scheme he'd devised to defy the sheriff. He didn’t think he would ever forget the look Marian had given him when she’d been taken away, her wrists shackled.

He watched her now, not needing to imagine his life without her. He’d just had a taste of it. Guy shuddered, thinking of where she could have been by then; of Winchester, laying his claim. _A well-deserved death, that one._

Rescuer? Guy knew very well that had Vaisey not had his own ends to pursue, Marian would have been beyond his reach by now. So, although his demeanour gave no sign, Guy felt the heaped stresses of the day bearing down on him. He would see Marian back to the castle, he decided, and then leave her be. Besides, the sheriff would no doubt have a myriad of tasks waiting, tasks that would keep him occupied well into the night.

The bailey was deserted when they rode in, but a servant came down the steps to take their horses.

“Shall I have the lad see you to your room?” Guy asked.

“No, thank you. I must check on my father, and let him know I’m back safely.”

“Really, the dungeons? Wouldn’t you rather refresh yourself, after such a day? I can take the news to him for you.”

“My thanks, Sir Guy, but I would rather do it myself. Good evening to you.”

He watched her walk away, up the steps, leaving behind an absence of thanks for her rescue, and the same faint sheen of scorn and cool detachment that seemed to coat most of their exchanges. He sighed; at least everything was back to normal. He followed Marian’s footsteps into the castle.

“You.” He stopped a guard in the corridor. “Where’s the sheriff?”

“I think the Earl of Buckingham’s still here, I saw them together earlier.”

“Where?” Guy growled.

“Not sure, Sir Guy. They’re not in the hall, you could try…..”

With an impatient gesture Guy strode away, heading for the sheriff’s quarters. On the way he passed a serving boy bearing an empty tray out of a room, and he stood aside to let him pass.

“Yes…Gisborne….well, I have plans for him – quite delicious, too…..” Vaisey’s voice came from within.

Thoughtfully, Guy allowed the door to close. There were stairs leading to an upper gallery. Before taking them, he removed his boots, and shrugged out of his jacket. Then he took the stairs, stopping on the last step below the gallery. From there he could hear well enough, and movement wouldn’t attract attention.

Guy picked up the thread of the conversation again.

“Our dear friend Gisborne,” Vaisey was saying, “will be crucial to the success of Shah Mat. Yes, yes, I know what you’re thinking.” Vaisey raised his hands in mock bewilderment. “How can we rely on someone so incompetent? Well that’s just it, you see. Gisborne has become a liability…”

“By failing to capture that outlaw?” Buckingham asked, between swigs of wine. “Hood does seem to have your measure….”

“Exactly – you see my problem. Gisborne’s shortcomings have become an embarrassment. Not only that, he drools around after the Lady Marian like a lovesick puppy –“ here Vaisey adopted a falsetto, mocking tone – _“oh my Lady Marian, may I walk with you, may I listen to your namby-pamby speeches about the poor and how they suffer”_ …. instead of being out doing what he’s supposed to be doing. Is that what makes a good lieutenant, Buckingham?”

The sheriff’s voice had taken on a silken, dangerous tone, one very familiar to Guy.

“A clue,” Vaisey said, quietly. He silently mouthed the reply: “No.”

“So, what do you propose?” asked Buckingham.

“That I give him the chance to redeem himself. He tried once before to kill the king, and failed. He will want to prove himself. This time, he’ll succeed. Mainly because we will do it for him, and then lay the blame at his feet. Our purpose in being there will be to warn the king. Tragically, we will be too late. And by the time the King’s guard arrives, the traitor will be dead.”

“It’ll never work, Vaisey. Everyone will know it to have been done at your order.”

“No one will see us together, or know we’re associated. But as an extra precaution, we’ve sent a messenger to our man there – preparations are underway. The King is being assured of our loyalty even as we speak.”

“Even though it was Prince John who appointed you?”

“That doesn’t make me a traitor, dear fellow.” Vaisey tapped a finger to his chin. “Oh wait – yes it does. But the king isn’t to know that, especially not when one of his trusted aides takes him a personal contribution to the war effort, one sent from the coffers of this shire.”

“What?” replied the earl, startled.

“Don’t you just love a good irony? I do.” Guy recognised the smug tone that always accompanied Vaisey revealing his schemes. “All this time, everyone – including Hood – has suspected that the taxes we’ve been collecting have been misappropriated. They have, naturally…but recently its served our purposes to also send some to the king. Yet by doing this….”

Here Vaisey swiped a hand across his neck and chuckled. Buckingham shook his head, bemused.

“But what about Gisborne? He’s a Black Knight. Does the prince know what you plan for him?”

“Let’s just say the prince is as fond of irony as I am. And he’s not a patient man. He’d call that man foolish who had only one iron in the fire at a time. Plans have evolved, dear fellow. You see, we’ve no way of knowing how long it will be until the king returns – it could be a month, it could be a year. The time to strike is _now._ ” Vaisey slapped a fist into his palm for emphasis. “It’s better, you see, if the king doesn’t return at all or, more to the point, his army. So, we will continue with Shah Mat, securing the south coast, bolstering the prince’s support, but in the meantime, _if_ we’re successful….”

Guy’s back slithered down the wall until he sat on the step. Below him, the room had gone silent; had they heard him? The urge to flee was so strong he almost didn’t care, but some instinct of self-preservation made him remain until the voices resumed.

“…imagine this, my good lord Buckingham: no more Lionheart, the way made clear for Prince John. I think you’ll agree, the rewards for such service will be….”

“Unimaginable?”

“Oh no, I can quite imagine them,” purred Vaisey.

Guy stopped listening. He slipped down the stairs and out into the corridor. Blindly, he headed for his quarters, thankfully passing no one on the way. Or perhaps he did, and had just been too absorbed by his own dark thoughts to notice. Once there he staggered inside and slumped down, his back to the door, those same black thoughts battering at him like the wings of a cloud of bats flitting past.

He struggled to comprehend what he’d heard.

He’d spent years doing the devil’s work, and these were to be his wages? This trap he was in, one of his own making, was deeper and more sinister than he’d suspected. Of the dangers of his position, of the risks of trusting his hopes and his future to a man like Vaisey, he’d always been aware. But this? To be a marked man, a tool they would use and then discard? Guy could see no way out.

He’d sworn loyalty to the sheriff, and had done his bidding faithfully. In so doing, he’d drawn on every shred of resentment he'd ever felt for villagers who once stood by and watched the tragedies of his youth unfold without bothering to help. His revenge had been full, and satisfying. But it had come at a cost. That cost had been his own sense of decency, and the laying aside of any pride in the man he’d become. He simply acted as he must, and did what he must.

Sometimes he acknowledged, in moments of weakness, that if his good and gentle mother could see the man he’d become, he would shrink from her in shame. Sometimes, this was how Marian made him feel too.

And now, this was where it had all brought him.

No way out.

_I am nothing. I have nothing._

Guy stayed there on the floor, the wings of those bats beating, beating, until finally he hauled himself up and went in search of a flagon of wine – hell, the more the better, as many as it would take - to try and drive them away.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Discoveries

_What I said before….you know, I said you were gorgeous…I meant it._

Marian rode, smiling, back along the Great North Road; those few, simple words meant more to her than any of the gifts Guy had ever given her. She hugged them to her, until heat of a different kind suffused her face….what had she done in return?

She’d punched Robin. And told him that he would pay. Strange, really, how her words and actions could be so at odds with what was in her heart. Truth was, she feared to let Robin know…to be too easily won. Truth was, she’d never stopped loving him, all those years when he was gone, and then since his return.

He’d come back the same, and yet not. Cocky, infuriating, but with a deep vein of goodness in him that war hadn’t mined out. He was selfless enough to give up his lands for the sake of justice, stubborn and foolish enough to think his way was the only way, and compelling enough to have others believe it. And to her great surprise, Marian was starting to believe it too.

But the obstacles against them never grew less. The biggest she faced at that moment – the thought chagrined her – was to be so preoccupied with thoughts of Robin that she might ride straight into the sheriff’s party, which would about now be heading that way. Cursing her stupidity, Marian turned her mount aside, and took a different path back through the forest.

For the remainder of the ride, a plan began to form in her head. It made so much sense that it was easy to set aside the dangers it would present.

Once Marian was back in the castle, with the knowledge that the sheriff, Guy and Allan were all out in the woods hunting Robin and the gang, she began snooping about, searching each room in which she thought the pact might be concealed. It made perfect sense to her, to try and find it for Robin. With all the gang’s secret entrances blocked, thanks to Allan, it would be foolhardy for Robin to try and get into the castle to find it, when she was already there.

But as an hour dragged by, with no success, she came to suspect that it would be in the one place in which she hadn’t looked. For long moments, Marian lingered in the corridor, debating what to do. Every minute she lingered, the risk of the sheriff returning grew greater. But she craved the anonymity of the Night Watchman, so Marian hastened back to her room and donned the outfit.

Then, dodging guards she retraced her steps, pushed open the door, and entered the sheriff’s private chambers. And there not one, but two, shocks awaited her.

The first was to see that indeed the sheriff had returned, and was napping in his bed.

The second was to see that her father, somehow not in the dungeons, was at that moment carefully withdrawing documents from the safe in the wall.

He heard her enter, glancing fearfully back over his shoulder.

“What are you doing here?” breathed Marian, approaching him, glancing at the sheriff’s sleeping form. “You mustn’t be seen.” 

“I could ask you the same thing, daughter.”

She took the pact from him, at the same moment noticing the dangerous tilt of a goblet on the edge of the bed. She pointed underneath the bed.

“Quickly,” she mouthed.

When her father looked like he wouldn’t comply, she whispered:

“At least I am disguised.”

As Edward scrambled under the bed, Marian hastily replaced the stone and the picture concealing it. In the kaleidoscope of confusion that followed, the goblet clattered to the floor, disturbing the sheriff, who began groping around on his bed for the keys to the safe. Finding it misplaced he sat erect, hollering for the guards, as Marian fled for the door.

She collided with one guard, and then another; they presented no real challenge. Marian sprinted down the corridor, turned the corner, and barrelled straight into Robin.

“What…..?”

“No time,” she snapped. “Here.”

She thrust the pact at him.

“My father is under the sheriff’s bed. Get him to safety, while I distract the guards.”

Relieved that at least her father would be safe now, and that Robin had the pact, she felt that all the risks had been worth it. Marian ran. The sweetness of success was within her grasp until, just around the next corner, she ran straight into a black, leather-clad chest.

He was quicksilver fast; never a quality she granted Guy, but now his arms locked about her in a tightly squeezing grip as his voice dripped menace over her.

“Think you’ll get away from me this time? I don’t think so.”

Marian struggled, but his grip was resolute. He spun her round and shoved her forward; she fell, heavily, and before she could gather herself he was on her back, pinning her to the flagstones. With her arms locked between his thighs, she couldn’t prevent him removing the mask. Her hair tumbled free of its restraint, and Marian registered a stillness – a confusion, a denial – in the moment before he released his weight enough to turn her over.

It seemed pointless to struggle. It was over, now that he knew. Marian saw a dreadful blankness cover his expression –

“No,” he breathed. “Not you.”

And then Guy hauled himself up and stumbled away, bracing one hand against the wall as he lurched from sight. Marian lay there a few seconds, stunned. Had he let her go? Would he be back, with guards, or a drawn sword? She needed time to think, to process what had happened, to calculate how it might be managed, but she didn’t have the luxury of time or thought when any moment the pursuit could be upon her. Marian pushed her hair back into the hood, and re-secured her mask. She only needed to return to her room, get rid of the outfit, and then she would be safe. Or, not safe …..Guy….he had gone that way, and she could hear guards approaching from that direction also. So instead she raced to the stairs which led down a level, intending to hide near the kitchens.

Guards there, too. She darted back, along the ramp. And with fewer and fewer options open to her, Marian ran out into the exposed bailey.

                                          ------------------------------------------------------------------

Guy didn’t know how he’d ended up in one of the guard towers. He leaned on the embrasure, head down, his scattered thoughts failing to alight upon one thing or another. His memory skittered through his various encounters with the Night Watchman, sinking him deeper into the conviction that, in fact, he really didn’t know Marian at all.

_Sitting by her at the fair, when she claimed a paring knife had cut her…_

_…the Night Watchman creating a diversion, when Hood had been strung over that pit of vipers…._

Of course – that made sense. _Hood_. So many things fell into place. He’d gotten to Marian somehow, turning her charitableness into something he could use for his own purposes. Guy’s fists clenched and unclenched - _that_ must be the answer…

…but…the wedding.

Just _two_   _nights_ before their wedding.

Guy’s gloved hand lifted, brushing the scar on his cheek. It wasn’t possible. Was it? Marian had been confined to her bed – _the_ _wedding_ , _perhaps_ , Edward had said. Fool that he was, Guy had believed him; it was what he’d wanted to hear, what he had hoped was true.

She _had_ planned to wed him, until that damned idiot Much brought word of the impostor. It was unthinkable, then, that she should seek to rob him so near the day of their nuptials. And of wealth that would have been hers to share. He didn’t understand. There had to be some other explanation - Hood, perhaps. Or one of his men.

Guy closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead. There was only one way he could be sure: he’d injured the Night Watchman. If it was Marian, she would bear the scar. And he wouldn’t believe it had been her, not until he could see the evidence for himself.

Hearing a commotion below, Guy opened his eyes – a cloaked figure had rushed into view, pursued by guards. _Marian_. Guy watched with grim amusement as she overcame the first of them, recalling the times she’d bested him. Until he realised that there were too many. Until he saw that she was being driven back, cornered….

Guy had seen an outlaw cut down before; he knew it could easily happen again.

“Wait – take him alive,” he bellowed, rushing onto the wall walk. No one heard him.

Marian was surrounded. Guy snatched the bow from a guard near him, and loosed a warning arrow. When that had no effect, he took aim and shot one of the guards in the arm.

“Oi, they’re our men,” the man cried.

“Shut up,” snarled Guy.

He’d got their attention, at least.

“Hold him,” he barked. “He’s mine.”

Guy clattered down the tower stairs, and shoved through them all, sword drawn. He felt the weight of their expectation behind him, and held the tip of his blade to Marian’s throat. Their eyes met; hers were wide and lucid. _Guy_ , _save_ _me_ , _please_ _save_ _me_. He could just hear the sheriff’s mockery.

He leaned in close.

“You,” he said, for her ears alone, “are a liar.”

Marian gave no word of defence, nor plea of gesture. Disgust at her duplicity and awe of her courage warred equally in Guy. Disgusted with himself, he made sure the pressure of the blade wouldn’t pierce her skin, then took hold of Marian’s arm and tugged her roughly alongside him.

“I’ll take it from here,” he growled, and a path opened for them as he led her back inside the castle.

Once they were alone, he withdrew the sword.

“Guy – I….”

“You. Will not. Speak. To me,” he ground out. “You can just show me. A year ago, I put a dagger in the Night Watchman’s side.”

Marian hesitated.

“Show me!”

Then as she lifted the edge of her vest, Guy reached out and hooked it with one fingertip, lifting the vest further. There. An ugly red scar, marring her creamy white flesh.

He let the garment drop, and staggered back a few steps.

“Guy….”

“No. Just go. Out of my sight.” Emotion hoarsened his voice. “Get out of that costume, burn it, and don’t ever….”

“Touching, very touching. But _wrong_ , Gisborne.” Vaisey appeared from around the corner, walking slowly towards them. “You see, that was your moment…to be able to say that you’d captured not only the Night Watchman, but a spy in our midst. And what do you do? You let her go. Did you really think that I wouldn’t find out?”

Guards appeared now, running in from the courtyard, and from the corridor behind the sheriff.

“You, and you – seize them. Yes, of course both of them. And put that ridiculous sword away Gisborne, or I’ll use it as an excuse to set my archers on you.” 

Guy glanced down at Marian. Together he thought they might fight off some of the guards, but archers? He let the weapon drop.

The sheriff stalked to within a pace of them. With exaggerated care, he peeled the mask away from Marian’s face.

“Oh…oohhh…..I can’t tell you how long I’ve waited to do that.” He reached out a hand, cupping Marian’s chin. “You see, Missy, I don’t think you realise just how much trouble you’re in. I’m going to enjoy this.”

His voice dropped to a malignant whisper.

“Oh, yes. Getting you to tell me what you’ve done with my pact….I’m going to enjoy this very much.”


	4. Stepping-stones

Marian examined the shackles about her wrist; this was happening far too often. These were heavier though, and more painful, than those placed on her when she’d been taken to Winchester. Whatsmore these ones were secured, by means of a bulky chain, to an iron ring set in the wall of the dungeon.

Guy, in the cell next to her, was also manacled and chained. He sat against the wall, his head bowed, sullen and brooding.

“I’m sure you two will have plenty to talk about,” had been the sheriff’s parting sally.

Guy was only in this situation because of her; confronted with her clandestine identity, he’d still tried to protect her. It made Marian uncomfortable, to realise that those same feelings which she’d always used to her advantage had been, for Guy, strong enough to compel him to defy the sheriff. Not once, but twice, in the last couple of days.

“Guy….” she began, intending to thank him.

“He was right, wasn’t he?” Guy interrupted, before she could get the words out. “The sheriff once said to me that, all along, you’ve just been laughing at me.”

“No, that isn’t true,” she protested.

“Isn’t it? Then how do you explain coming to Locksley, to rob _me_ , your husband-to-be, just two nights before we were to be married?”

“It wasn’t like that. I can explain. It was my last chance to do something that meant a lot to me, something that being your wife would have meant giving up. It wasn’t personal.”

“Oh, you lie. I think it was, Marian, I think….”

“How could you?”

The accusation cut across Guy’s bitter words. Both she and Guy swivelled towards the voice, which came from the cell next to his.

“You!” uttered Guy.

In the torchlight, Marian could see messy curls, wide-set eyes and a full, pouting mouth. Eyes which, at that moment, glittered with indignation.

“That’s terrible!” The girl, furious with her, ignored Guy. “What sort of woman would do that?”

“This one, it would seem,” Guy said dryly. “What are you doing here?”

“You two know each other?” Marian was curious.

“What? Yes….no…..not really,” said the girl.

“She was at Locksley when I was testing the armour. She knocked Hood down, stopped him drowning me.”

_Well, I was doing trying to do the same thing. But_ , Marian acknowledged to herself, _was that more about saving Guy, or helping Robin?_

She wisely stayed silent. It wouldn’t do, to draw Guy’s attention to her possible collusion with Robin. He’d said nothing of it so far; better to keep it that way.

“I have a name,” she heard the girl mutter.

“Which is?” Marian prompted.

“Meg,” she said. “Meg Bennett.”

“So why are you here?” Guy repeated. “What have you done?”

“Refused to marry, that’s what I’ve done.” Meg clunked her chain disconsolately. “Which you would hardly think deserved this punishment, but the sheriff seemed to think otherwise.”

“He doesn’t like to be crossed,” observed Marian.

“No. And he said I’m to stay here, until I choose myself a husband from one of my suitors.”

“He would,” muttered Guy.

Despite his interest in the girl, Guy hadn’t moved. He lapsed back into silence. Marian did also, trying to think what she might do. Robin would hear, soon enough, that she’d been caught. And come for her…with all the foolish risks which that entailed. If there was some way that she could engineer her own escape, something she could do…

Thoughtful, Marian withdrew a hairpin. She began tampering with the lock at her wrists, but the angle was awkward; she couldn’t get purchase. _Robin would know what to do_.

“So, it’s all true,” sneered Guy. “You, and Hood.”

Marian could have kicked herself; distracted, she must have said that aloud.

“Guy, help me….if we can get these chains off…”

“Yes? And then what? Know when you’re beaten, Marian.”

But that had never been her way. Or Robin’s. Marian continued to worry the lock, though the effort made her wrists ache and the manacles dig welts into her skin.

“Has anything you’ve ever said to me been true?” Guy asked then, his voice hollow.

Marian dropped the hairpin. She was glad of it; shadows hid her face as she stooped to pick it up. As she thought about her answer.

“What would you have done?” she asked, rising. “If I’d told you I was helping Robin? If I’d told you that…no, never mind.”

“Told me what?”

Marian sighed. She didn’t want to have this conversation; she tried a different tack, ignoring his question.

“I tried, once,” she said quietly. “To tell you the truth. You remember, when you came to my house, and I agreed to marry you?”

“You said some things about England – I can’t really remember, it wasn’t what I’d meant. And then, you showed me the necklace….” He paused. Marian fidgeted with the hairpin, aware she’d chosen ill to speak of that incident.

“I’ve been a fool,” Guy said savagely. “Hood was at the window…”

“Guy, listen to me,” she said urgently, desperate to be understood. “What I said then, it was relevant. You dismissed it because it’s of no interest to you. But to me, that’s who I am, and what I am. I _care_ about people who are being starved, and beaten; who are being forced out of their homes. I _need_ to help them, that’s why I became the Nightwatchman. But would you have ever understood that?”

“Did you give me the chance?” he muttered. “But then, I never _had_ a chance, did I?”

For a long moment, Marian was silent. The impulse was there, to tell him, to be free of the lies. Deceiving Guy availed nothing when here, today, all was new; her identity was unmasked, there was no going back.

But she’d concealed the truth for so long, twisting, or concealing it, because other things were more important - helping Robin, protecting her father. The truth, always borne away on a current of necessity. These same concerns insinuated themselves into her thoughts yet again. What use to brazenly tell Guy her heart belonged to Robin, stoking an enmity which already had plentiful fuel? The lure, too, of a twin-pronged motive, to salve her conscience: she would not be needlessly hurting Guy. After all, he had just defied all her expectations by allowing her to escape; she could easily have been down here alone. Why antagonise him, why jeopardise the fragile hope she felt – always ten steps ahead – that perhaps, finally, he could escape Vaisey’s hold, could become something else…

…hope skittered through her heart, possibilities careened through her mind… _too much, too fast, he’s waiting for an answer…_

“In a way, I was honest with you,” she said, trying to ford the moment on stepping-stones of truth. “I tried, many times, to discourage you. To refuse your gifts. But you wouldn’t listen. And I _was_ honest with you when I said that I wanted friendship between us. I want that still…”

…noises intruded from along the corridor and, distracted, Marian paused. She thought at first it was the jailer returning. But she heard a scuffle, a thud; a muffled shout, and then with light footsteps, Robin was there.

Her heart leapt – a rush of dizzying affection, accompanied as it so often was by exasperation…at the risks he took, at the need to hope that he would _behave_. This time, especially, she hoped he would refrain from goading Guy.

“Are you alright?” he asked, wasting no time in opening the cell door.

She nodded, as he came to release her shackles. He worked fast, sparing hardly a glance for Guy.

“How did you get in here? Hasn’t the sheriff posted more guards?” Marian asked.

“He will,” said Robin. “At the moment, he’s too busy…..”

Robin stopped what he’d been about to say. Marian looked at him more closely. He was behaving oddly – he wasn’t taunting Guy, and there was something almost rattled in his haste. This wasn’t like him.

“Did you get my father away?” A kernel of worry had begun forming; perhaps her father had been captured, or hurt. “Is he safe? Where is the pact?”

“Let’s talk when we’re out…there isn’t time,” Robin said, tossing the chain down.

“No.” She put both hands in his arms. “Robin, tell me. What’s happened?”

Deftly, Robin rolled his arms to cup her elbows instead. Then he slid his hands along until he cradled both her hands in his.

“Marian - we _have_ to get out of here. Come on.”

He turned away, keeping hold of one hand, tugging her along.

“Wait,” said Marian. “What about Guy – and the girl?”

“I have a name,” grumbled Meg.

Robin ignored her.

“Why would I get Gisborne out? He’s where he belongs, at last. Let him get some of the treatment he’s doled out to everyone else.”

“Didn’t you hear what happened? He’s only in here because he tried to help me.”

“That doesn’t make up for everything else he’s done.”

“Maybe not,” Marian insisted, “but it isn’t right that he should….”

“Forget it,” came Guy’s voice. “I wouldn’t go anyway.”

Stunned, Marian pulled free from Robin’s grip and went to the door of Guy’s cell.

“Why not?” she asked, clasping the bars. “You must come. The sheriff will…he’ll hurt you, surely.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Nonplussed, Marian glanced back at Robin, who shrugged. She tried again.

“Guy, I know you’re angry with me, and that you feel betrayed, but…”

“Leave it, Marian,” he growled. “I told you, I’m not going. I’ve nowhere _to_ go. You think I should run off to the forest, as you clearly plan to do? You think they’d welcome _me_ with open arms? I can just see that, can’t you?”

“You could always leave, go somewhere else,” put in Robin.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Locksley? You saw me driven away once, tail between my legs – I’m sure you’d love to see it happen again.”

Marian glanced back at Robin – there was something, here, something that she didn’t know.

“We don’t have time for this,” Robin repeated, deflecting any question she might ask.

She turned back to the cell.

“Guy, you know the sheriff, when he finds me gone he’ll want to take his anger out on someone.”

“I’ll deal with it. He’ll reinstate me – he has _plans_ for me, things no one else can carry out.” Marian didn’t miss the odd note in Guy’s voice.

“It won’t stop him from hurting you though, will it?”

“Go, Marian. If all else fails, Allan can get me out. He’s untouched by all this. One way to test how strong his new loyalties are, hmmm?”

“Marian…” This from Robin.

“Of all the stubborn…..” she muttered, then turned to the next cell, gesturing for the keys.

“I’m not going either,” said Meg.

“Really?” huffed Robin, running out of patience. “A rescue, with no one wanting to be rescued… why not? What’s your problem?”

“The same – where would I go? Spend my life in the forest? Be sent back to my father, only to be married off to some fop or fool?” Meg turned towards Guy. “Perhaps, Sir Guy, you could do me a small service – could you intercede with the sheriff, on my behalf? Buy me some time, say six months? Then I can try and find either a groom, or some other solution.”

“Go with them,” snapped Guy. “I can’t promise you anything. There’s no guarantee the sheriff will listen to anything I say.”

“But would you ask?” she persisted.

“Perhaps I could help, I might know…” Marian began, only to be interrupted by the clatter of feet coming down the stairs.

“Robin,” hissed Little John, “they’re coming – the sheriff, soldiers – we need to go _now_.”

Frustrated, Marian pulled the jewelled blade from her hair. She'd lost it, earlier in the day; had found it returned to her room, by whom she had no idea. Now she held it out towards Guy.

“Here, take this. Use it to free yourself and Meg, if you need to. Meg – are you sure? I could ask….”

Guy took the blade from her, looking over at Meg.

“You should go,” he said to her. “Don’t rely on me. I can’t protect you.”

“I’ll take my chances,” she said stubbornly.

“Robin!” urged Little John.

“Marian, come _on_.” Robin grabbed her arm, urgent now. “If things go badly, we can come back for Meg.”

“But how will we….”

Still protesting, Robin caught her about the waist, urging her away. They raced up the stairs after Little John, Marian’s head full of misgivings, trepidation in her heart for the two that they left behind.

                                              ---------------------------------------------------------------

“I should have known,” yelled Vaisey. “Too incompetent even to be rescued, Gisborne?”

He stormed in, kicking the bars, then hopped back to nurse that foot.

“Too busy chasing after that damn pact - which I still don’t have, _thanks_ _to_ _your_ _leper_ _friend_. Sergeant,” the sheriff flung over his shoulder, “find the man who told us Hood had gone to the West gate stables, and flog him. And, all the while, where was he? Here, that’s where! What I’d like to know is, how did he find out so quickly, hmm? Did you ask him that? Perhaps you’d be so kind as to tell me.”

Vaisey paced up and down, shouting. Guy let the tirade wash over him.

“And then, I’ve had to deal with panicked nobles, now that that fool Knighton has managed to get himself killed.”

“Sir Edward, dead?” croaked Guy. “How? Are you sure?”

Vaisey paused by Meg’s cell, sighing theatrically.

“ _Are_ _you_ _sure_? See what I have to put up with, my dear?” The sheriff looked at her more closely. “Wait, you’re still here? Hoody-Two-Shoes left you behind? How unlike him. Unless, wait …..guards! You, and you. Get after them, quickly. They must have heard us coming…..”

With the pursuit on again, the sheriff seemed to calm a little. Guy knew better; scheming, calculating, that malevolent mind never rested.

“Well Gisborne,” he resumed, tapping the side of his nose, “you present me with something of a problem. I hate waste, you see. And I’ve spent all these years, grooming you, giving you a place at my side, allowing you a share of the power we will ultimately gain…and all for what? To throw it away in a fit of lunacy? In a moment of weakness, of folly, over that little leper?”

The sheriff leaned in close, poking his face in between the bars. Guy fingered the blade Marian had given him.

“A clue,” whispered the sheriff. “No.”

He stepped back; even as he did so Guy wanted to call the moment back, to use the weapon.

“But surely now,” Vaisey went on, “despite your lapse upstairs – once you’ve had time to think about it, and seen her true colours….an _outlaw_ _sympathiser_. Running off to the forest with Hood – she’ll be warming his bed, no doubt, hmm? I’m sure once you have time to think about _that_ , you’ll come to your senses. You’ll see that behind that pretty little face was a lying witch who manipulated you…who spied on us… and all for _him_.”

Guy sank back into the shadows, the knife twisting, each accusation burning deeper because he couldn’t refute them. Everything Vaisey said was true. Minutes ago, even after everything that had happened, she’d still taken refuge in evasion. Everything Marian ever said to him was either a lie, or so mired in ulterior motives it couldn’t be extracted. But Vaisey, too, was faithless, using him. His momentary bravado in front of Hood – refusing to be rescued, telling himself there was still time to come up with a plan – now that he was faced once more with Vaisey’s relentless cleverness, that bravado seemed a fool’s illusion. Guy wished sincerely that he had used the blade, when he’d had the chance.

The sheriff had fallen silent; Guy waited, like a man with nothing but the planks beneath his feet and a few precious seconds keeping him from the noose. His fate, he knew, was still to be decided.

“You,” said Vaisey, turning again to Meg, “remind me why you’re here?”

Guy stirred, wondering what the sheriff was up to now.

“Wait, I remember – you’re the girl who won’t choose a husband. Who thinks she’s too good for her suitors.” Vaisey gave a gleeful grin, rubbing his hands together. “Well, I know how to solve both problems at once…..Gisborne, here, is in need of a wife…”

“No, my lord – I am not,” protested Guy, hoping to clip this idea before it took flight.

“Of course you are. It will help you forget the Lady Marian…and you, my dear, what better man could you hope to marry than our Gisborne? A fine man, one of many talents…” here Vaisey glanced up, his hands together in mock prayer – “ _forgive_ _me_ , _just_ _a_ _tiny_ _lie_. Anyway, where was I – yes, a man with a great future…”

“I do not. Need. A wife.”

“Nonsense Gisborne. It’s the perfect solution. Look at her, so pretty….and after all, one leper’s as good as another. She needs a husband, you need someone to cuddle at night so you can focus on your duties in the daytime. It’ll keep you away from the kitchen maids – well, let’s hope it does, for this one’s sake – and comfort you for the loss of your dear Marian.”

“My lord sheriff, I must….” began Meg.

“Good, then that’s settled.” Vaisey strode towards the stairs. “Very satisfactory. We’ll organise the nuptials for two days from now, I think. Meanwhile, you can stay here for tonight, and get to know one another better. Lovely ambience – flickering candlelight – perfect for a courtship, hmm?”

Then Vaisey disappeared up the steps, humming a tune to himself, and chortling.  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Choices

Not like this. Never like this.

She was with him, and she would stay with him. Robin recalled his words to John of York: _you can’t sleep for thinking of her…you can’t turn a corner without hoping she’ll be there…._

Having Marian come to the forest had been his dearest wish. _Come and join my gang_. How many times had he asked her? 

But not this way.

It was helping John of York, that whole sorry business, which had led to Edward’s death. He ran with Marian now through Nottingham, towards the appointed meeting place. Little John had gone on ahead. He must tell her, Robin knew, before they met up with the gang.

“Marian.” He stopped, and gestured for her to follow him. He led her into a small alley, beyond which lay a courtyard strung with lines of washing.

“What is it?” she asked, catching her breath. “Robin, I need to find my father. Will he be with the others? He won’t be able to return to…”

“Marian, shhh….” Robin held her arms, bowing his head a moment, himself struggling with Edward’s death. 

“Robin, what is it? You’re scaring me. He is alright, isn’t he……tell me that he is.”

Slowly, Robin shook his head.

“Marian, I’m so sorry…..”

“No….what are you saying? He is safe, he must be.”

“We found him where you said, and we got him out of the castle. But the Canon of Birkley …. Marian,” he said gently, “I’m so sorry, I wish…”

Marian shook free of him, and backed away. She paced up the alley, and then turned back towards him.

“No. Where is he? I must see him. Take me to him.”

“I can’t…the guards came and found him. They took his…him…back to the castle.”

“And you just let them? How could you?”

He caught her then as her knees buckled. Her words tumbled out, frantic; behind them, Robin could sense the immense wave of grief that would soon break over them.

“We can’t just leave him there, we must go back,” she insisted.

“We can’t. We have to get you away.”

“I’m not going. If it was your stupid pact, you’d go back for it….”

There was no heat in her words, only anguish, beating futilely at whatever lay in its path. Marian fell, sobbing in earnest now. Robin knelt with her, and she clutched at him, her eyes streaming and wide with distress.

“It’s because of me,” she cried. “He only did this because I was angry with him this morning, and I called him weak.”

“He died doing something he believed in,” Robin said gently. He felt one of her hands grasp softly, as if handling a bird, at the back of his head.

“But he died believing he had a wilful daughter.”

Robin shook his head.

“He asked me to give you a message.” He took hold of Marian’s free hand. “He said, it’s good to dream.”

Then he kissed her hand, and pulled her into his arms. She trembled, silently now.

“Come with me?” he prompted, releasing her after a few moments. With one hand, he gently caressed the back of her neck.

Marian nodded wordlessly. 

He helped her up then and they half-stumbled, arm in arm, to the end of the alley. Robin checked that all was clear, and they hastened on to meet the rest of the gang.

                                               ----------------------------------------------------------

It was rare the dungeons were silent, Meg found. Cries echoed from closed chambers; in nearby cells, prisoners groaned or shifted, even small movements marked by the clinking of chains. The jailer, or guards, occasionally Vaisey himself, came and went. At rare intervals, food was brought. If you could call it that. Meg picked up a heel of stale bread; saw it crawling with maggots, and tossed it down in disgust.

“You should have left, when you had the chance.”

She could barely see Gisborne; he’d moved back into deeper shadow at the rear of his cell.

“Well, I had a plan,” she replied.

“I told you it wouldn’t work,” grumbled the master-at-arms.

He had; Meg couldn’t deny it. She wondered, now, if she’d been foolish. But at the time, presented with a range of only bad and worse choices, it had seemed the best course. She couldn’t have anticipated the sheriff’s bizarre plan. She could see how, to him, it made some twisted sort of sense. But to anyone with good sense, it was preposterous….

Footsteps clumped down the steps. Two guards, dragging a prisoner between them, passed by and kicked open the door of the cell at the end, tossing the man inside. Gisborne rose, and walked to the bars.

“Oi…you…send for the jailer. Tell him I need to see him.”

As Meg watched, Gisborne palmed the blade the Lady Marian had left for him, and Meg realised what he intended.

“Stop…you can’t do that,” she hissed.

“You can’t stay here. You have to get out.”

“Will you come too?”

“Look, we’ve been through this…” Gisborne ground out.

“Then I’m not going.”

“Listen, you stupid girl….”

“No, _you_ listen to me,” Meg said angrily. “What do you suppose the sheriff will do, if you stab a guard and then let me escape?”

“I’ll blame Hood – say he came back for you.”

“The sheriff’s no fool,” scoffed Meg. “He’d never believe it.”

“Then what do you suggest? You do realise, if you stay here, what will happen?”

“I’ll have to marry you.”

“Exactly. Which is out of the question.”

“Why – because you don’t want a wife? Because you’re in love with _her_? Well, you just saw her run off with…”

“Be _quiet_!” barked Gisborne. “I can’t marry _anyone_.”

Meg gazed at him, wondering what was behind this statement.

“You called for me, Sir Guy? How can I help, accommodations not to your liking?” came the sly voice of the jailer, who – now that he’d been summoned – was approaching Gisborne’s cell.

Meg saw the master-at-arms ready his blade, and thought fast.

“Please – I asked him to call you….” Meg lifted her arms, shaking the chains. “I knew you wouldn’t come if I asked. But these are hurting me. I don’t suppose you could…”

The jailer veered her way. A hand shot through the bars, gripping her chin tightly, contorting her lips. He leaned in, the stink of his last meal on his breath.

“Do you think, just because you’re to be the future Lady Gisborne – or so I hear – that you can expect special treatment down here? Well it doesn’t work that way, my lady. The only special treatment you’re likely to get…”

“Leave her,” rasped Gisborne. “Or I’ll see you pay for any rough handling.”

“Just a bit of fun, Sir Guy.” The jailer released her face; Meg rubbed at the abused skin. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Now if that’s all…”

“It’s not. Take her chains off.”

“Can’t do that, I’m sorry Sir Guy. Sheriff’s orders. Until tomorrow, you two are to be treated like any other prisoners. Which means I take no orders from you.”

The man shuffled off. Meg gazed at the master-at-arms, not sure what to make of him. Gisborne beckoned her over to the bars.

“Let me see,” he said, gesturing at her wrists.

Obediently, she lifted her hands; his thumbs ghosted across the skin where the iron had rubbed. Releasing them, he lifted the corner of his shirt, working the blade into a position to cut some strips.

“No – use this,” Meg said, bunching the end of her skirt and holding it up to the bars.

“I don’t think so,” he said.

“Please. There’s more fabric.”

Gisborne acquiesced. He took a handful of her skirt, and cut what was needed. Meg held her hands up to the bars. As he wound the material, creating a barrier between the shackles and her skin, Meg gazed at him - at the angled planes of his face, at the down-swept lashes – and, when he glanced up, flushed deeply to have been caught staring.

“Tell me then,” she said, covering her embarrassment with chatter, “what makes marriage so impossible for you?” 

“What do you think?” Gisborne parried.

He finished the binding, and started to move away. Meg reached out, her fingertips just catching the sleeve of his shirt.

“Please, tell me.”

Gisborne glanced at her hand, then up at her, and seemed to be considering. He gave a slight shake of his head.

“Later,” he muttered.

There was no way, down here, to tell if it was day or night. Meg dozed, her head resting on her knees. When she woke, the latest prisoner was being dragged past their cells for questioning. She looked around for the master-at-arms, expecting him to have retreated again into the shadows, but he was sitting nearby, leaning against the wall of his cell, staring at nothing.

There was no one near to hear now. Meg shuffled closer, holding the bars between them, waiting. Gisborne raised his eyes to hers.

“Is this what I’d have to expect if we were wed? Silent nagging?” A reluctant smile twitched at his mouth.

“Can you tell me now?” she said.

He shifted closer, leaning his shoulder next to hers.

“That day at Locksley,” he said instead, after a few moments. “Why did you help me?”

“Because I thought Hood was going to drown you. And no one else was doing anything.”

“But surely, you know my reputation,” Gisborne said bitterly. “Didn’t I deserve it?”

“To be drowned like an unwanted pup?” Meg said hotly. “No, of course not. No one deserves that.”

She paused, debating briefly with herself. But then, when had wisdom ever prevailed over her impulsiveness?

“Besides…I’ve always quite liked you,” she confessed.

Gisborne gave her a look then, as if she were some odd creature that he couldn’t quite fathom. But her words, somehow, loosened his tongue.

“Meg,” he said, low-voiced and urgent, “I was once fool enough to tell someone I could protect them as Lady Gisborne. Well I was wrong. I can’t even protect myself.”

“Why?” She didn’t understand his meaning. “Just because you work for the sheriff?”

“Because the sheriff has plans that, if they succeed, will make me either a fugitive or a traitor. Anyone close to me would be tainted, disgraced….” Gisborne tilted his head back against the bars; Meg shuddered a little, envisioning the strong column of that neck constricted in a noose. “That would be a sorry way to repay you. You need to get away. Have nothing to do with me.”

Meg ignored this last comment.

“Then he mustn’t be allowed to succeed. But if you knew this,” she asked, “why did you stay in here?”

“Because I told myself I’d have time,” he said bitterly, “to try and think of a way out. If I can’t, _then_ I’ll leave Nottingham. But I wasn’t about to give Hood the satisfaction of seeing it.”

“Tell me,” Meg pressed, “what the sheriff plans. Between us, perhaps, we can think of something,”

Again, that look….one she couldn’t read. Slowly, the master-at-arms hauled himself to his feet.

“I’ll not do it,” he muttered. “If you won’t see sense, then I’ll refuse any marriage the sheriff tries to force on us.”

“You can’t do that!” cried Meg. “He’ll foist me off then on some…please Sir Guy, that’s the worst thing you could do….”

“Then get out of here! This isn’t a game. When the jailer returns, we’ll get you out. I can take care of myself. I don’t need your pity…just get out,” he growled, “and stay away from me.”

His rejection hurt more than it should have. He was doing it for her sake, but it angered her, that he should ignore her wishes so arbitrarily.

Her wishes? Her choices? Where were they, in any of this? In the twists of fortune which had characterised her last few days, Meg had felt her fate closing in, no matter how hard she resisted. She’d seen this happen to her friends – married to suitors of whom they had little knowledge and, in some cases, even less liking. It seemed it was their lot to be bartered, bullied ….and the marriage bed didn’t bear thinking about. Those amongst her friends who had wed were full of conflicting tales and silliness; Meg discounted much of what she heard.

But Abigail’s reticence was worse; wed to Lord Saunders, she would say nothing on the subject, only fidget with her sleeve, or her skirt, and take her leave as soon as was polite.

Yet this was to be her future: her freedom, forfeit to a stranger. Not all those who asked for her hand had been strangers, of course. There’d been young William Strake, who she’d known all her life, but him she would rather beat with a broom for his endless complaining than wed. Or the latest, the arrogant, leering Lord Carr, one of her father’s oldest friends; it was her sound refusal of _him_ which had seen her hauled before the sheriff for being so intransigent.

Now, by a quirk of fate, the master-at-arms was her intended…unless he remained stubborn in his notion to disobey the sheriff. Meg watched him, as he resumed his seat, leaning his head back against the wall. He had a reputation for cruelty; no doubt he’d done many wicked things. But for a man who seemed so arrogant and powerful, riding about the villages on his big black horse and barking out his commands, she’d seen Gisborne at his weakest moments, vulnerable and humiliated. Now she knew, also, how contemptuously the Lady Marian had dealt with him, just days before their wedding.

In one respect, she understood and applauded Lady Marian’s actions…. perhaps, Meg thought, if she were compelled to marry Lord Carr she’d have felt tempted to do the same. But it didn’t prevent compassion for Sir Guy stirring in her heart. Nor did it wipe away the oddly tender moment when he’d tended to her wrists. Or alter the fact that he was prepared to defy the sheriff, again, to protect her. Unless, of course, he was bluffing.

Choice. They would all take it away from her: her father, the sheriff, even the master-at-arms.

So, Meg made one.

“Sir Guy.”

“What?” he growled.

“This piece has caught up in the chain…may we cut some more?”

Sighing, Gisborne pushed up from where he sat and came to the bars.

“Here,” she said, raising the edge of the skirt.

He began to cut another square of fabric; Meg shifted a little, bumping his hand, and let out a cry as the blade nicked her leg. It was the easiest thing in the world, then, to use this distraction to snatch the blade from Gisborne’s hand. Grabbing it, she ducked backwards, out of reach.

“I’ve made my choice,” she challenged. “You must make yours.”

He watched her for a moment, his expression darkening; he realised he’d been tricked. Meg returned his stare, a little breathless. She expected an outburst, but instead Gisborne turned away and retreated to the rear of his cell. Meg had no idea whether this was in resignation, anger or indifference. She couldn’t read him, at all.

The hours passed, his silence continued, and Meg began to fret. He’d been an ally, before; what was he now? Had her boldness aggravated him to the point he’d go through with his threat, and leave her to be tossed to whatever suitor the sheriff chose, like a bone to a dog? She knew what such an action could cost him, too; she’d heard the harrowing noises along the corridors from others who, in some way, had displeased Vaisey.

Her situation seemed hopeless. If he wasn’t exaggerating, then the master-at-arms was a marked man. She should be doing exactly what he’d suggested. She didn’t know Gisborne; she owed him nothing. But what was the alternative? To escape, and to go where? And she kept coming back to the risk it posed to him, if he engineered her escape. She didn’t want to be responsible for _that_.

Perhaps, now that she had the blade, she should do it herself. The jailer would never suspect that she was a threat.

Kill a man? Tired and wrung out as she was, this thought was so bizarre – so far from any sense of normalcy - that she gave an overwrought hiccup, and then succumbed to tears.

Ashamed of this weakness, she hid in the shadows, not wanting Gisborne to see.

“Stop snivelling.”

The first words he’d spoken in hours. Chains scraped on the floor, as he moved closer.

“Foolish girl,” he rumbled.

But he reached through the bars then, stroking her cheek. And Meg leaned against his hand, disappointed when he took it away. Even so, that small gesture had been a comfort. She took it with her as she went and curled up on the filthy bunk, there to fall into an exhausted sleep.  
  
  
  
  
  



	6. Beginnings

“You wound me, Gisborne,” drawled the sheriff the next morning, examining a tray of gems that a merchant displayed before him. “That one, I think.”

Vaisey looked up.

“Time for a new tooth,” he murmured. “Now - do you think I wouldn’t have thought of that, of all the…fripperies….that come with a wedding?”

“I’m sure you have, my lord, but you know how women are. They need time to prepare for this sort of thing…”

“Yes yes, all the _pretties_. But the arrangements - the priest, and the feast, and the minstrels…all in hand, Gisborne. All you need do is show up.”

“That’s just it. If that’s all I do, she will feel coerced. I’ve…discovered…that’s no way to start a marriage. But if we could delay – say three or four weeks, allow me time to court her…”

Vaisey laughed outright. 

“You think you can win this one in so little time, when two years didn’t get you far with the Lady Marian? No – soft, Gisborne, too soft. Besides, I know what you’re up to. That just gives you, and her, time to try and wriggle out of it.”

“Not with her father keeping an eye on her. I’m sure Lord Bennett will keep her, if not under lock and key, then closely watched.”

Vaisey considered this; Guy waited, concealing his weariness. He’d had years of practise at it. He could smell the stench of the dungeons still on him; he hadn’t taken time to wash down, but had come straight to Vaisey’s quarters to try and alleviate the sentence the sheriff had passed on the girl.

That was how he saw it. Being wed to him, with his murky future, it could be nothing else.

He’d had very little sleep. Chains, damp, and the smell of men’s fear weren’t conducive to it. It didn’t help that for years he’d been the one giving out the beatings, or the order for it, himself. What would Meg say, if she knew? But then, how could she not know? He was Vaisey’s henchman; everyone knew what he did.

And no one could see past that. No one except Marian, that is, and now this impulsive chit of a girl. She’d come barrelling out of nowhere that time, to rescue him from Hood’s dunking. And for some reason, she still had the urge to protect him, stealing Marian’s blade so that he couldn’t kill the jailer and incur the sheriff’s wrath.

He didn’t understand it.

Vaisey, who’d been tapping his quill on the desk, now rose and paced to the window. Guy waited.

During the night, he’d had plenty of time to think. If Meg wouldn’t escape, then he must find another way out. He owed it to her. A delay, perhaps, one that would give them time to see her safely away. Marian might know of somewhere she could find sanctuary, until all this had played out and it was safe to return.

_Marian_. Her betrayal hurt him far more than the sheriff’s treachery. _So blind_ …they started to surface again, the anger, the self-recriminations. He kept recalling fresh things…..his sergeant, for one. For all the compassion Marian showed to the poor, she didn’t shrink from making ruthless choices. She’d let him torture his sergeant to _death_ , believing him to be a traitor. She’d listened to him going on about loyalty, when all the while, her own lay elsewhere. With _Hood_. And so, she’d kept silent. Guy wondered if he’d really known Marian at all.

These glum thoughts had been swirling in his head, like swill in a goblet, when he was disturbed by Meg’s crying. He’d offered comfort; she’d leaned into his hand, trusting, and the unfamiliar stirring of affection he’d felt had surprised him. Of course, he’d withdrawn. She couldn’t be allowed to depend upon him for comfort. To depend upon him for anything.

“Very well.” The sheriff turned back from the window then, his voice returning Guy to the moment. “One week. You have a single week to woo her. But by the end of that, I’ll see you two wed, even if the girl has to be tied to the altar.”

Vaisey rubbed his hands together, clearly bored with the topic.

“But for now, I’ve a job for you. Get your men ready, and we’ll ride out to Knighton. Time to finish what you started, hmm? They’ve had no manor, now they have no lord either, so we’ll collect their rents and then, when the time comes, put all Lady Marian’s beloved peasants out of their hovels and make room for my mercenaries. I’m sure you’ll enjoy doing that – another small taste of revenge, hmm? You see how well I look after you?”

And with his hands clasped behind his back, Vaisey strolled out, humming.

                                                 ----------------------------------------------------------  
  
The first thing Marian registered, when she woke, was the warmth of another body – of Robin – beside her. This should have been pleasant – and it was - but moments later she remembered why she was there. Her tears began to gather again.

Robin was awake. She turned to face him; he folded her into his arms, comforting her as she wept. For a while, Marian was conscious of nothing but her grief. The events of the day before – her unkindness to her father, his recovery of the pact, the circumstances of his death…all these things tumbled through her thoughts, tossing them wildly about. And so she clung now to Robin, and the security of his embrace, trusting this to keep her afloat.

“Do you suppose they’re awake?”

Marian stilled. Much’s voice, reminding her that there was a whole world out there to face, starting with the gang.

“How would I know?” Will said. “The way you’re banging that stuff about I imagine they would be.”

“Well the eggs won’t make themselves, if you’d like to…..”

Marian stopped listening; she scrubbed at her cheeks, and then started to sit up. The man’s shirt she’d slept in – left folded and clean for her the evening before – was bunched around her hips. When she remembered why, she pulled it down, her face heating.

She wasn’t sure on what signal, but at some stage during the afternoon before – in what little had been left, by the time they got back to camp - Will had taken himself off and started preparing this extra sleeping area. He'd moved some of their stores to do so, clearing a space barely wide enough for the mattress someone donated - one of them was sleeping rough that night, until they could source another - and rigging a curtain to give her some privacy. He and Much had disappeared for a time, she didn't know where, returning with some rudimentary bedding. She’d been too distraught to notice much else, but remembered being thankful that Robin hadn’t _assumed_. Grateful enough that later, when the camp had fallen quiet and he rose for his own bed, she’d asked him not to leave. Let the others think what they liked; she knew, and Robin did too, that she simply didn’t wish to be alone. Not last night.

Or so she’d thought. In the middle of the night, she’d needed refuge. Simply being in Robin’s arms had no longer been enough.

“Help me forget….” she’d whispered.

She’d turned to face him, her hands caressing his face, unable to see him in the dark but knowing what she would read in his eyes if she could. The same thing that she felt from him, as Robin’s lips met hers – grazing softly at first, the message in them as clear as if he’d spoken …. _I’m here, I’m with you, be comforted_. Twining her hands behind his neck, Marian’s own response spoke for her as she returned the kiss, as it deepened, consuming her. _This is what I need….for there to be nothing_ _but this, nothing in all the world._ She pressed the length of her body to his, only the thin shirt separating her nakedness from his bare torso, and his lightly clad limbs. As his leg nudged between hers, Marian moaned softly. She felt his body start to quicken and his arousal, firm against her, had awoken something in her that made Marian move one of his hands to cup her breast. As his head dipped to follow it - the ill-fitting shirt no impediment - she buried one hand in his hair and, tilting her head back, her eyes closed and seeping tears, she wished that the world was not such a place as could hold in its grasp such piercing depths of sorrow and yet _this_ at both one and the same moment.

_More_. She’d needed more. Moving her hands over him, revelling in his taut muscles, in his smooth skin – _so beautiful_ , she marvelled - wanting to leave no doubt of her intentions. Marian let her hand stroke downwards, seeking to free his laces. With little fuss, soon there was nothing between them…she continued stroking, wanting to see what it felt like to hold him in her palm. Not enough. Wanting to feel _all_ , wanting to have Robin be with her…wanting him to fill her thoughts, and her senses, and her _body_ , so that there was no room for anything else. No space, for this terrible grief.

Robin had sensed her desperation.

As she rose over him, opening herself to him, he’d placed a hand on her inner thigh, holding her still. Just the warmth of his touch there had made her crave him even more, to know what it would be like for them to be together.

“Not like this,” he’d murmured. “This – us – it shouldn’t be remembered for today’s sorrows.”

His rejection puzzled her, but before it could settle into hurt, or resentment, with one hand Robin stroked her face tenderly. With his other, he guided hers back to where it had been.

“Keep doing what you were doing,” he said, huskily. “And don’t worry. I’ll make sure you forget.”

His gentle tone reminded her of another time…. _I_ _don’t_ _know_ _how_ _to_ _thank_ _you_ …he’d just told her of the physician who could stop her wedding to Guy, and she’d been wounded, vulnerable then too, grateful…. _you’ll_ _think_ _of_ _something_ , he’d said….. and in the dark she could almost picture that same tiny, accompanying wink, the one that had suddenly made her feel, as never before, the great gulf of experience which existed between them. It made surface the fact that although Robin was only a few years older than she, that he had seen and done so much more than she had, both on the battlefield and in matters of intimacy. Marian knew he’d not been chaste in the years he’d been away; would never have expected it.

Perhaps it was that experience which, as he made good his word, drove such thoughts from her mind. It allowed Robin to make her feel that despite her haste, despite her brazen rush to join with him, that there were no such differences. Or, that if there were, that they didn’t matter. He found her desirable, she knew that – had always known it – but to _feel_ it, so raw and urgent, in the way he kissed her, with a hunger that matched the way he worshipped every inch of her body, both outside and then _in_ , the at-first gentle exploration which made her own rhythm falter. As he added another finger, delving more fully, more intently, her hand stilled, and then – caressing her in ways that made her body yearn for completion – his touch made sure that she found it, drawing her up and over that heady crest of sensation. At the same time, Marian imagined it to be a whisper of love, the sigh of her name against her ear, as she fell and fell, her body cleaving to his.

And then, almost without conscious thought, Marian took up where she’d left off…had not long resumed when Robin groaned, from deep within. He tensed, thrusting against her once, twice, and then found his own release. When he was spent they lay entwined, for many minutes, Robin’s hand behind her neck, stroking softly, cradling her against his chest, while the ache deep inside Marian – stirred by all they’d just done - spoke to what she _knew_ , one day soon, they would both experience together.

It was enough, for that moment, to know that he loved her. And Robin did love her; she was sure of it. As she sat now tugging down the thin shirt - noticing the morning air cool on her upper body - another memory warmed her. Of a whisper, soft against her hair… _rest_ _easy_ , _my_ _love_ …..once Robin thought she’d been asleep. She glanced at him now, and saw the warmth in his eyes as he looked at her.

“I’ve nothing to wear,” she blurted, not knowing what else to say.

“Good morning,” Robin said softly.

He sat up, and swung his legs off the narrow, makeshift bed. Marian glanced away. Now, in the cold morning light, she was feeling numb and bewildered again. Gazing around, she began seeing things that had escaped notice the evening before. Tokens the outlaws had provided for her welcome, and for comfort. Practical things: a bowl, a hairbrush, a roughly-lengthened, neatly-folded peasant's skirt, as she had only her Nightwatchman's trousers. But more importantly, her Nightwatchman’s mask which, in all the confusion at the castle, she thought had been lost. How they’d found it, she had no idea. Tears welled again in her eyes.

“I know it’s not much,” soothed Robin, mistaking her reaction, “but we’ll get more for you. Don’t worry, we’ll take care of it…. _I’ll_ take care of it, of everything.”

“That’s not it,” she corrected. “They’ve been so kind. You all have. But there are some things at the castle it would be good to have, things my father valued….”

Swiping angrily at her cheeks, Marian stood and dressed. Impossible to hope she could retrieve any of them; it was too dangerous. Nonetheless, it was a momentary distraction, to speculate as she walked out to greet the others….

“Hey, you lot – come quick!” She swung round then to see Allan running into the camp, bending over once he reached them to catch his breath. “The Sheriff and Gisborne are rounding everyone up at Knighton.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” exclaimed Marian, ignoring the plate of bacon and eggs that Much held out to her. The prospect of action, distracting her from her grief, was far more enticing than food.

And with swiftness and an economy of preparation that she had to admire, the gang took up weapons and loped out of camp in the direction of what had once been her home.

It was her home no longer, though. Once there, they clustered behind the bean trellis, watching the soldiers rounding up the villagers, herding them into the centre. As if on cue Vaisey cantered into the village, his mount kicking up dust, and Marian was both relieved and apprehensive to see that Guy was riding not far behind.

“He’s safe then….but what about Meg?” she murmured.

“Shhh – listen,” said Robin. “We’ll find out later.”

Marian shot him a glance, but complied.

“Good people,” began the sheriff, striding into their midst, “I have sad news for you. The lord of this estate, Edward of Knighton, tragically passed away yesterday. But what saddens me more is what else I must tell you. And that is, that the circumstances of his death lead us to believe that Sir Edward was plotting against us, that he was a traitor…”

“That’s a lie!” whispered Marian. “You said no one saw you at the scene…”

“Of course it’s a lie. It’s the sheriff, isn’t it?”

“…and if there was any doubt that your lord has been lending his support to the outlaws, then hear this, good people of Knighton: his daughter, your beloved Lady Marian, has made her position quite clear. She’s escaped from house arrest with no other than Robin Hood – abandoned all her responsibilities to you folk, and absconded to the forest to be with her illicit lover. Ahh – the things we do for love, hmm Gisborne?”

Guy scowled, she saw, but said nothing.

“So, what does all this mean? The fact is, that because these lands have been held by a traitor, they are now forfeit to the crown, and I will be administering them in the king’s name until he returns. So, all the dues which you paid to Sir Edward, will now come to me. Starting today. So, chop chop, rustle up your money pouches and let’s see what you have for me.”

“But Lord Sheriff,” one man dared object, “Sir Edward usually didn’t take coin – he’d take eggs, or produce, or…”

“Well none of that stuff is of any use to me. Coin it is – or if you don’t have any, let me see...” Vaisey paused, turning a slow, deliberate half circle. “No, coin it is – see to it, Gisborne.”

The sheriff casually remounted his horse.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Vaisey drawled. “The Lady Marian is now stripped of all her status – just status, Gisborne - and declared an outlaw. So, anyone seeing her, you will come forward, hmmm? You’ll be rewarded – fifty pounds, shall we say? Let’s make an example of her, so that if anyone thinks that their rank will protect them, they will see that they’re badly mistaken.”

Guy gave the order; the sheriff kicked his horse forward and moved away.

“Robin,” she urged, “we have to stop them.”

“Yes, but just wait until…”

“Wait! How can you say that?” She winced, as blows began falling on the villagers.

Hers no longer, but a lifetime of the impulse to protect them wouldn’t be gainsaid. Heedless of whether the sheriff looked back or not, she rushed from hiding, ignoring Robin’s warning behind her. She didn’t understand his inaction. Marian charged at the nearest guard, dropping him with a sidekick to the torso, swirling to catch the upraised arm of the man beating young Roderick with a stick. She punched hard, right into the soft flesh beneath the guard’s arm, and before he could recover she snatched the staff from him and felled him with a blow to the head.

A split second, and Robin’s urgent shout, alerted her. Marian swung just in time to dodge the swipe of a blade. She stumbled back as Will rushed the guard, heart racing, as she realised how close she’d come…. hoof-beats behind her then, a horse approaching, and Marian brought the staff up to defend herself, because if the sheriff had turned back…

It was Guy.

“Get on,” he snapped.

“No, I….”

“Do it, Marian,” he thundered.

She debated a moment, glancing around. The gang seemed to have the upper hand, containing the threat to the villagers. Robin was running her way, shaking his head, gesturing for her not to mount. But Marian made a snap decision; she took Guy’s outstretched arm, and swung up onto the horse behind him.

She thought he’d ride out of the village, but instead he turned the horse and turned behind the trees which formed the border of the manor grounds.

“So…Hood can’t control you either,” Guy said wryly, once they dismounted.

“No one controls me,” she snapped. Then, more calmly: “What are we doing? Why did you bring me here?”

“To get you out of the way.” He held up a hand, as she started to object. “That wasn’t all. I needed to speak with you. I thought you’d want to know, your father’s been interred…. early this morning, but I don’t know where. Not here, at the churchyard. So I’ve instructed a man to find out.”

Tears welled in Marian’s eyes. Guy cleared his throat, and continued.

“And at the castle there are some of your belongings, and his, that I thought you might want. I’ve ordered them kept aside until I can get them to you. If you’ll tell me where….”

He faltered to a halt. Marian, having mastered herself now, laid a hand on his arm.

“Thank you, Guy. That was kind.” She looked up at him, warmed by this glimpse of a side to him that others rarely saw.

“And Meg?” she asked. “Is she safe?”

“It depends,” Guy said cryptically. “She’s out, if that’s what you mean.”

“What do you…”

But at that moment Robin hurtled round the corner. He scowled and, seeing this, Marian withdrew her hand. Guy drew his sword, and advanced.

“What’s the matter, can’t you keep her out of trouble either Hood?”

“Marian, move,” snapped Robin.

“I’ll do no such thing. Stop it, both of you.”

She grabbed Guy’s elbow but in a burst of anger, he shook free, unwilling to be disarmed before his adversary. Marian tried another tack.

“Robin – stop it – he needed to speak with me, that’s all.”

She approached Robin; he kept his gaze fixed on Guy, the curved sword raised. He gave no hint, in his expression, of the man she loved; she’d seen Guy have this effect on him before.

“Listen, he had word of arrangements for my father, and of my things at the castle. And he got me to safety. So please, let’s just go. The villagers are safe now.”

“With him still here?” Robin scoffed.

“I’d do what she says, Locksley,” sneered Guy. “The peasants here will just have to pay up, like everyone else.”

“Guy…” she began.

“Go!”

With brusque movements then Guy sheathed his sword, and ignoring Robin he swung up onto his horse. Robin watched him leave, only then turning towards her.

“Come on,” he said, his tone clipped and angry. “You and I have things to talk about.”

He strode past her then and, his face set, loped off towards the forest, not bothering to look back and see if she was following.  
  
  



	7. Discussions

“What did you think you were doing?” Robin rounded on her. “You could have gotten yourself killed….or any one of us.”

They hadn’t even reached camp; he was too angry to wait. The rest of the gang, suspecting the storm about to break, had trotted ahead without them.

“Oh, and you don’t risk that, every time you show up in Nottingham in one of your outlandish disguises, running around the castle as if you own it, getting yourselves arrested….”

“That’s different – I know what I’m doing….”

“And I don’t?”

Robin knew he’d chosen his words poorly, but was too angry to care. He paced, incensed. She’d acted recklessly, and as much as he’d wanted her to be in the forest with them he realised now that perhaps this wasn’t going to be easy. The gang he trusted to take care of themselves; but Marian….

…he knew, in his head, that she was a capable fighter. But she wasn’t infallible. He recalled that heart-stopping moment, the raised blade that she hadn’t seen, and it fuelled his anger even more.

“You didn’t think. You just rushed in…” he accused.

“….of course I did, they were hurting people.”

“And we would have helped them, when the time was right. Not with the sheriff still in sight, and Gisborne hovering…”

“And that’s what really bothers you, isn’t it? That I went with him.”

“No – well, yes, that bothers me too. What did you think you were doing? He knows you’re the Nightwatchman. He’s back with the sheriff. For all you knew, he could have taken you straight back to the castle.”

“But he didn’t, did he?”

Robin threw up his hands in frustration.

“What kind of an argument is that? My point is, you didn’t know.”

“But I did know. That’s the thing, I know Gisborne well enough….”

“I could see that – you do know him quite well…”

“Grow up, Robin… you’re being a child.”

They were getting nowhere. And he was sick of being told to grow up. It was her fall-back response, whenever an argument wasn’t going her way. And what could he say to that? _I’ve done my growing up, in blood, in the Holy Land. I’ve done it here, refusing – whatever the cost – to watch people suffer._ But even this they disagreed on. _Fight the system from within_ , she’d always told him.

Well, that way didn’t work. She should know that, by now. That way saw you reading the sheriff’s proclamations from a platform as he looked on, it saw you standing by and watching innocent men hang, or starve, or feel the blade between their ribs. That way saw Little John’s Alice lose her tongue, or…..

“Robin. Wait.”

He’d stalked ahead of her, enraged. Now he turned back, and saw that she hadn’t followed. He stood, waiting; when she made no move forward, he relented, pacing back to where she waited.

“I apologise. I shouldn’t have called you a child. But nor will I be treated like one. And nor will I trail after you like some…servant.” Defiance glinted in her eyes. “If I’m to be here, I will walk beside you, or not at all.”

Robin felt a surge of admiration for her, then; it was one of the reasons he loved her. Beautiful, bold, spirited…here she was, laying down her terms after less than a day with the gang. Here she was, charging into a fray, possessed of no thought but protecting her people….and all this so soon after she’d lost her father, since her world had been turned upon its head.

But for all this he had to lead the gang, and she had to know that, and accept her place in it.

“Marian, I’m sorry too. I know all this is new, and strange to you…” He held out his hands, and she took them. “And this is only our first day together. Let’s both calm down, and we can talk about it later.”

She gave a small nod, accepting this.

“But we _will_ have to talk about it,” he added, as with joined hands they walked along the forest path after the others.

“I agree,” said Marian.

“Now there’s a first,” he teased.

And he grinned, as he received in reply to this an elbow to the ribs.

                                          ---------------------------------------------------------------

Guy had no real affinity for country lanes. But it was the second time, upon visiting the Bennett estate, that Meg had dragged him along one. A servant – the chaperone Lord Bennett required – trailed them at a respectful distance. A mouse of a man, Guy had no doubt a single bark from him would send him scuttling, if he had designs on Meg.

Guy had no such intentions. Exactly the opposite, in fact.

“This is your chance to leave,” he insisted. This wasn’t the first time they’d had this discussion. “We can try and find sanctuary for you in an abbey, or with a noblewoman, but we’re running out of time. Why are you being so stubborn?”

Meg grimaced.

“An abbey? No thank you. Anyway, you know why, I’ve told you. If I disappear you would be implicated…”

“….I can look after myself.”

“Not from what I’ve seen.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Guy could feel the conversation starting to slip away from him. So many of them did, with Meg. She had the habit of taking a topic and twisting it like wool around her fingers, until it was impossible to find the thread with which they’d started.

“Never mind,” she muttered. “And you call me stubborn, but I’m still waiting for an answer to the question I asked in the dungeon.”

Guy waited. When nothing more was forthcoming:

“Which was?”

She glanced behind, lowering her voice a little.

“You said the sheriff had plans for you, but you wouldn’t tell me what they were.”

They walked on in silence, Guy considering. Perhaps this was the way out he’d been seeking. If he revealed the sheriff’s plot to Meg, maybe she’d understand why marriage to him would be such folly. 

They’d reached a bend in the lane, where a pig foraged noisily beneath a large oak. Meg turned around, calling back to the servant.

“Collin, go and tell Harold his pig’s turned up,” she instructed. “He’s been grumbling for days that he couldn’t find her.”

“But mi’lady…”

“Do what she says - now…” menaced Guy, and the servant took himself off in haste.

“Try not to scare the pig too,” Meg muttered beside him.

Guy almost smiled. But her next words wiped all trace of it away.

“Well we’re alone now….this is your chance.”

It probably was, but Guy still hesitated to reveal the sheriff’s designs, and his own role in them. But he realised that if he said nothing, she was certain to be caught up in them.

“Some people will do anything for power, Meg,” he began.

“And would you?”

“I’ve done enough,” he said darkly. “And I would have done more. My name is on a pact that….”

Guy swallowed. Could he trust her? It was no light thing to confess to treason, even in private, in a shade-filled lane near a pig rootling for acorns. But, with little to lose, he ploughed on.

“….by just signing my name to it brands me a traitor. Now Hood has that document, so if the king returns I’ll hang for that alone. But Vaisey and his knights, they have a plan to prevent it. To make sure the king never returns, and to put Prince John on the throne. And that is what they’re going to blame me for.”

“How?”

“Does it matter?” snapped Guy. “Haven’t I told you enough?”

“Please. Tell me.”

Guy rolled his eyes. But Meg had stopped walking, and turned to him, and rather than being repulsed by his confession her face was furrowed with concern. Before he knew it, they were sitting on the stone fence and, although his mouth was dry, and although he felt as if tension flowed through him like the blood in his veins, soon Meg knew it all: the proposed trip to the Holy Land, the plan for regicide, and then his own murder, leaving Vaisey free to declare him a renegade and a king-killer.

When he was done, Meg was silent. The breeze carried the aroma of bread from the village bake-house. Nearer, the cloying scent of wild honeysuckle climbing over the fence; Meg toyed with one of the blooms.

“Let me ask one thing,” she said eventually. “ _Would_ you kill the king?”

“I’ve no love for him, Meg. He cares nothing for this country, or for his subjects. Do I _want_ to kill him myself? Probably not, anymore. Could I have ended up with no other choice? Quite easily.”

Meg shuddered.

“You do know what they do to traitors? Worse than hanging. You’d be better off dead at the sheriff’s hand. It would be more merciful.”

“Is that why you wanted to know?” Guy asked sourly. “Well, now that you do, let’s drop this farce. You can see why a wedding’s out of the question.”

Meg ignored this; she stared out at nothing, a thumb absently rubbing her bottom lip. The motion caught Guy’s attention, but finally he grew impatient. He stood, ready to leave, but Meg didn’t move.

“Well,” she said at last, “it’s obvious what you should do.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. You should find Hood and tell him what Vaisey plans, then together you can….”

“You as well!” spat Guy. “I should have known.”

“Should have known what?”

“That you’re in league with Hood,” he snarled. “He put you up to this, didn’t he? He’s lost one spy in the castle, so now he’s put you in as another. So when did he get to you, was it…..”

“….you’re being ridiculous,” snapped Meg.

“Am I? All that stuff about not wanting to see me tortured – well you had me convinced, you’re as good as…”

“….because it’s true, you _stupid_ man.”

“Dung-girl,” he sneered.

“What?” said Meg, arrested by the insult.

They looked at each other a long moment.

“What….did you call me?”

Guy recalled, then, that at least on that day she hadn’t been in Hood’s camp; she’d been acting solely to protect him. He felt a wash of shame. Perhaps, in the heat of the moment, he’d overreacted. Meg, her face in her hands, was making muffled sounds. Guy stepped forward and laid a hand awkwardly on her shoulder.

But she was laughing.

“All this time….” she gasped, “is that how you’ve thought of me?”

Meg wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Then:

“No wonder you don’t want to marry me….the future Lady Gisborne, _dung_ - _girl_ …..”

Guy shook his head.

“You can see why it would never work, then.” He grinned reluctantly.

“I see nothing of the sort. Come, please sit. Then we can talk, sensibly, about what we should do.”

Her choice of words wasn’t lost on Guy, but he let it pass. He sat down beside her again, waiting as she composed herself.

“You say Hood has the pact, so you’re already compromised,” Meg began, drumming her fingertips on her knees. “So, you’ve nothing to lose by approaching him, and everything to gain.”

“How so?”

“Because if you reveal Vaisey’s plot to him, and find some way to stop it together, then that will clear your name. It won’t matter that you’ve signed the pact.”

Guy was silent, turning the logic of this over in his head. In one respect, it made sense. But to co-operate with the outlaw? To turn traitor on Vaisey?

“It’d never work,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Because Hood would never agree to it.”

“Of course he would, he’s a king’s man. Let’s give him the chance, and set up a meeting.”

Guy sighed. He knew that, however delicately, he was being manoeuvred. There was a small part of him that liked her assumption of his problems, her inclusive “we.” The sense that perhaps he wasn’t, for once in his life, acting all on his own.  


But it wasn’t enough. In blaming Hood, he hadn’t been wholly honest. Guy wasn’t sure _he_ could agree to it.

He rose, and held out a hand to Meg.

“I’ll think about it,” was all he could allow.

“But….”

“I said, I’ll think about it,” Guy snapped.

They turned back along the lane, Meg lapsing into a rebuffed silence. As they walked, a man who Guy assumed to be Harold acknowledged her with a tap to his forehead – “mi-lady, thank you” – and hastened past them in the opposite direction, to collect his errant swine.

                                              -------------------------------------------------------------------

Guy tipped the last drop from the flagon into his cup, cursing. It didn’t seem that long since he’d sent for it but, undeterred, he rang for a servant and sent the girl to fetch another.

He slept here when his duties kept him late, and had been in the habit of doing so more often - an excuse to be near Marian, once she’d come to live at the castle. It wasn’t lost on him, now, the slight crinkle of the servant’s nose when she entered his chambers. He knew the room smelled stale, from an excess of ale and unchanged bed linen. Normally fastidious, Guy couldn’t bring himself to care. He took another swig.

The whiff of Marian’s collusion with Hood, now _that_ had been far stronger than the closed air of any untended room. It had been everywhere, Guy saw, now that he knew. But, he’d chosen to ignore it. Far easier to bask in the sense of almost-well-being which a truce with Marian had brought him, after her clandestine visit to Locksley. In the past, she had jilted and humiliated him; he’d burned her house, and detained her and her father. These things had been… well, not forgiven, but put to one side.

Far easier, he’d found, to believe whatever Marian had told him. _I_ _offer_ ….. _friendship_. Past experience had made him mistrustful. _What_ _is this all about_? They’d been interrupted, but Guy knew he would have relented. Vaisey would have derided him for it. _And will you sit up and beg if she asks too? Perhaps roll over, and let her scratch your belly….ahh, there we go, good little Gizzy_ ….the thought had made Guy cringe, because it was true. Marian had given him so few words of encouragement that when, occasionally, they had fallen from her lips, his good sense had got stuck in them like a fly mired in honey.

The sheriff had indeed questioned him about her nocturnal visit the next day, gleefully imagining outcomes which had kept Guy awake much of the night himself, even after he'd dealt with the effects of those imaginings. It had given no lasting relief.

_No relief _. Perhaps, now, this should be. He was free of her, wasn’t he? Free of Marian’s lies, her manipulation, of the tainted hopes that some part of him had always known, were he honest with himself, had been misguided.__

____

He looked glumly into the dark liquid, gulped more down. It didn’t feel like relief. It didn’t feel like freedom, not when he was sitting here, ruminating over the events of that night, trying to piece together what might have been her true motive for visiting him. Whatever it had been, it must have had something to do with Hood.

_Hood_. No wonder the outlaw had been so smug, in their every encounter. The knowledge of Marian’s true feelings must have warmed him, and taken the sting from Guy’s taunts. Perhaps not fully; Guy smiled to himself, taking a grim moment of pleasure at the thought of how the outlaw must have felt the day he and Marian had almost wed.

_Almost_. A fleeting triumph at best; Guy bore the scar of that failure.

He drained the cup, and slammed it down.

“Where’s that damn girl?” he muttered.

And now, Meg expected him to swallow all this humiliation, and go crawling to Hood for help? His pride baulked at the thought. But did he have a choice? There weren’t many: he could flee the shire, stay where he was and go meekly to his fate….or, he could fight it. And for that, he knew Meg was right. He would need help.

He heard a timid knock; the girl returning.

“There,” he growled, pointing to the bedside table.

When she’d gone, Guy collapsed onto the bed, flinging one arm across his face. His life was full of unpleasant truths now. Allan had given him one only yesterday. He’d stumbled on the steps above the bailey, blinking at the sunlight after a night’s heavy drinking. Guy would have knocked the sheriff down, if Allan hadn’t steadied him.

“Giz, you need to give it a break,” Allan had whispered, one hand beneath his elbow.

“Phaw,” he’d added, turning his face away from the evidence on his breath.

There was a limit, Guy knew, to what he’d get away with under the sheriff’s scrutiny. But this week? With Marian gone, in league – no doubt _in_ _bed_ with his enemy – and his own future bride chosen by Vaisey’s whim?

“You should be grateful to me, Gisborne. She comes with a title, dowry, lands...and she’s not displeasing to the eye.’ Vaisey had been smug about his cleverness, at one of their morning meetings. Guy had tamped down a retort, and tried not to sway on his feet.

He lay, now, reflecting that he had another choice – for tonight, at least. He was free, inasmuch that he was bound to no woman. He wasn’t wed, yet; Marian had spurned him, as only Marian could. He could send to the Trip for paid company.

Guy removed his arm, gazing at the stonework overhead. Truth be told, he was weary, and a little disinclined. He suspected the time for that idea had passed more than half a flagon ago. Even as he made this decision, he heard footsteps clattering up the stairs, and a pounding at the door.

“Sir Guy, are you there?”

The handle shook.

“Enough,” he snarled. “What do you want?”

Guy dragged himself to a sitting position, and shook his head slightly.

“Sheriff wants you – says the weapon he’s brought from the Holy Land has arrived, and you need to be there.”

There was no point asking if it couldn’t wait until morning; this was the sheriff. Guy rubbed his hands through his hair, glancing at the shutters. No light in the cracks; it was well past sundown. He should have gone back to Locksley when he’d had the chance; at least, then, there might have been the chance Allan would have had to deal with this in his absence. Or not. You never knew, with Vaisey.

"Tell him I’m on my way.”

Guy stumbled to the washstand, tipping water into the bowl and splashing his face. He rubbed down with a towel and then leaned both arms on the stand, aware he was in no fit state to front up to the sheriff. Well, he would do what he must.

Just as he would about Meg’s suggested course of action. Leaning there, his arms trembling slightly and water dripping from his hair, Guy came to a decision. This one time, in all the years of working for Vaisey, by chance Guy did know the sheriff’s plans for him. It was an advantage he couldn’t afford to squander.

So, he would agree to meet with Hood. But if Vaisey ever discovered this – something which Guy hadn’t pointed out to Meg – the fate that he would receive at the sheriff’s hands would be as far from any kind of mercy as she could ever imagine.  
  
  
  
  
  



	8. Deceptions

Eyes hard and flat. Resolve in them; resolve that had turned aside at the last minute, true, but Allan had never seen that look on Robin turned against him before. He’d nearly died, that day, when Robin first discovered he was the traitor, and Allan knew it. For all Robin said he didn’t kill, he was a man who did what was necessary. To protect Marian, his king, and his friends – and in that order, Allan suspected – he knew full well that Robin would kill.

But that day in the tavern, he’d had some of the luck he was so fond of trading in. Robin had let him live. He wasn’t sure his luck would hold true the next time, which was why he found himself now in the unlikely position of defying Guy of Gisborne, someone else who could just as easily spit him on his sword. He supposed it said something about the nature of what he did, both then and now, when death-by-employer was a very real hazard of the job.

“I’m not doin’ it. He’ll kill me.”

“And what makes you think I won’t?” growled Gisborne.

“I don’t. So, go on then, if you plan to, but I’m not riding out into that forest just to become target practise.”

“I thought that wasn’t Hood’s way.”

“You haven’t seen him when he’s been betrayed.”

“Oh, I think I have,” Gisborne said dourly.

Too late, Allan recalled the whole unfortunate tattoo business, and decided it was time to change the subject.

“But there might be another way…I’ll see what I can do.”

Which was why, now, he was skulking in a Nottingham alley, waiting for the usual Tuesday food drop. He wondered who’d come. He wasn’t sure who he would most, or least, want to face. Not Robin, of course. With Djaq, he’d be safe, but he could imagine the hurt and disappointment in her face, and he thought that might be worse than the clout Little John was likely to dole out with his staff, or Much’s flurry of recriminations, or Will’s…. yes indeed, just how would Will treat him? He didn’t like to think about that either, any more than he did of Djaq.

Perhaps they’d changed the day – he was almost hopeful they had, though reporting failure to Gisborne was never pleasant. Perhaps they thought he’d give this knowledge away, just as he’d revealed their entry points into the castle.

Resentment bubbled up in him, then. _Innocent betrayals…. there’s no such thing._ Robin with right on his side, Allan thought bitterly. He’d made a plea for understanding, and all he’d received in return was a blistering “Is that supposed to be an excuse?” Course it wasn’t. But it didn’t change the fact Robin had no idea what the reality was for the likes of him, and didn’t care. Robin didn’t understand him at all. Couldn’t he see the edge of the blade he flirted with now, one that could cut him either way, for the sake of the gang? Trying to keep himself ingratiated with Guy and the sheriff, while giving nothing away that really mattered, like the location of their camp.

A suspicious movement caught his eye then, and a flash of dark copper hair beneath a cowl. Allan moved around the stalls until he was closer, needing a better look. It was her. He reached out and grabbed Marian’s elbow, startling her. She dropped the sack she was carrying.

“Oi, what are you….hhmmmph….”

That same elbow thumped back into his chest, winding him.

“It’s you!” she hissed, her eyes flashing in anger. “What on earth were you thinking, creeping up on me like that? I’m trying to avoid attention.”

“The best way to do that would be to stay out of Nottingham. What are you doing here?” he asked. “I’m surprised Robin let you….”

He caught the flicker of something in Marian’s eyes before she looked away.

“…wait, he doesn’t know you’re here, does he?”

“No, he doesn’t.”

Allan chortled.

“So, living in the forest ain’t all it’s cracked up to be? I could have told you that.”

“I’m sure you never had to sit round camp doing nothing because Robin feared for _your_ safety. I can look after myself, and he should know that. I don’t know why he doesn’t trust me.”

“Maybe because you’re here, now, where any guard with half an eye open could pick you out. I did,” Allan said wryly. He tilted his head towards the nearest alley. “Come on, let’s get out of sight.”

“And you still haven’t told me what you’re doing here,” he asked again, once they were out of the marketplace.

“What does it look like? I’m making the drops, so best you let me get on with it.”

“But they usually come in pairs; I _know_. So, what’s the deal?”

Marian looked sheepish.

“They all know I’m supposed to be at camp. But I caught up with Djaq and Much and told them their help was needed in Clun, that the village’s oxen were being confiscated by guards and that Robin needed them. I offered to take the food back to camp so they could go straight there.”

Allan gave a low, appreciative whistle.

“So, you lied.”

“Yes, I lied.”

He chuckled.

“You are going to be in such trouble….”

“Which is why I must get on with this, and get back before he sends someone looking for me. I don’t need minding. I have to show him I can do these tasks, things that I’ve been doing for years without his say-so, and without getting myself into trouble.”

“Well, that’s not quite true.”

“I don’t have time for this. Goodbye Allan.”

“Wait, not so fast. I was here looking for one of the gang to take a message back to Robin.”

“A message? From who, Guy or the sheriff?”

“Guy, of course. If the sheriff knew I was holding back…. he suspects, as it is.”

“So, what is it?”

Allan glanced around, gesturing her to follow him a further into the alley. Waited as a cooper’s wagon rolled past at the far end, the wheels making a din on the cobbles, and then said in a low voice:

“Guy wants to meet with him. Friday night. Said he knows something that will interest Robin.” Allan glanced around, then lowered his voice further. “Something about the king.”

Marian said nothing. She gazed at him, in that way that she had, assessing.

“Is it a trap?” she asked eventually. “Where does he want to meet?”

“The barn, at Knighton… he says it’ll just be him and me, and Robin has to come with only one man…”

“…or woman….”

“As you say. So, will you tell him?”

“Why is he doing this Allan? Why now? And is he…does he seem….”

“You mean is he pining for you?” Allan couldn’t help the slight sneer that crept into his voice. “Not that I’ve seen. Besides, the sheriff’s found a bride for him. He’s supposed to marry Meg Bennett at the end of the week.”

“And he’s agreed to this?” Marian was clearly shocked.

“Seems to. But look, I don’t know what’s going on. He doesn’t tell me everything…in fact he tells me bleeding nothin’, most of the time. But if you’re worried for Robin, go with him. You know Guy won’t see any harm come to you.”

This seemed to convince Marian.

“Alright. I’ll tell him.”

Marian hoisted the bag back onto her shoulder, gazing thoughtfully along the alley to where the sun cut across the pockmarked cobbles.

“Allan, do you know what this means? If Guy is truly, for whatever reason, willing to help us?” Marian’s voice was laced with hope.

“Well I wouldn’t go getting too far ahead of yourself. You know what they’re like. They’re just as likely to get in the same room and take fists to each other if they don’t like the way the other blinks.”

“Not if I can help it,” Marian said grimly. “I’ll see you Friday night.”

“You’re confident,” he teased. “First you’ll have to talk yourself out of this stunt.”

Marian said nothing; she turned, looking towards the end of the alley, preparing to slip away.

Allan accompanied her to the end of the alley.

“We need to go separately.”

“I know,” grumbled Allan. “Just remember….”

“What’s that?” interrupted Marian.

They paused, looking out. A slowly gathering crowd had begun to appear, and something was drawing its attention. Marian couldn’t see anything, but she could hear a voice intoning Latin, and the rumble of a cart, notable in that it was the only vehicle moving.

“What’s going on?” she muttered.

As the cart proceeded, a ripple of cries and wails flowed through the street, folk following in its wake.

“Someone’s died,” she said.

Marian pushed through the crowd, vaguely aware of Allan beside her…

…and she might have fallen, stumbled under the wheels of the cart, if he hadn’t caught her. Elbowing through to where she could see – she did see – and the strangled noise, the quiet keening that began she knew not where, welling up in her throat and escaping in a voice more akin to the netherworld than the living….it was as if her body had registered her shock, and given expression to it, before her mind could even process what she saw.

_So, this is what it is like_ , she thought, _to have my heart ripped out_.

Robin, laid upon the cart. He lay still.

_Yes…it’s him_. Words float round her like pollen on the breeze. _But he can’t be dead…can he?_ The sounds of grief, intruding. In the same moment, Marian both resented it – _this isn’t their loss, it’s mine, he is mine_ \- only to recognise that this outpouring of grief, this love the common folk had for him, this was what Robin lived for, this was what he _deserved_ , it was his right...

But she didn’t want to share him. 

_I was with you, just hours ago. Last night_ ….

Allan, helping to her feet, but she couldn’t rise.

“Come away, Marian, please.”

_My love, king of my heart, my beautiful Lord of Locksley_ ….

The high, keening cry, pouring from her in a note that pierced through all the other sounds of mourning, drew the gaze of the man leading the procession. His droning voice wavered….

“Did you kill him?” Marian croaked. She hardly recognised her own voice.

Only action could stave off this….could help… _what can I do?_ Her thoughts, circling like carrion crows, found only this man – blond, in a leather cape, dagger at his belt – who was bearing her beloved towards the house of his enemy, to alight upon.

“Did you?” she demanded again.

“Marian, come away.” Allan, tugging at her arm.

“I did.”

A collective gasp from the crowd. It could have been the gasp of drowning souls and Marian would have ignored it. She launched herself at the man, intent upon gouging those smug blue eyes from his face, so that the last thing this murdering _coward_ would see upon this earth was the face of vengeance.

Hands grabbed her from behind, hauling her away, as she kicked and screamed and clawed for the face of the man she hated above all else on the earth.

“Marian, come away. It’s me, Little John.”

He lifted her from her feet, carrying her bodily through the crowd, as tears streamed down her face and the image of her beloved…..

_….so young, so vital, he cannot be dead, my Robin…_

“Hush, Marian.” Reaching a quiet alley, Little John set her down. He spoke urgently. “Listen, Djaq gave him a potion – he’s not dead. It’s all a ruse, to deceive the sheriff. When they get inside, Carter – the man you attacked – will give him another, to wake him up.”

Marian steadied herself, holding onto his arms. She stood very still, the emotion draining from her, leaving only those essential words to which she clung. _He’s not dead_. The tension, the grief, left her. But where joy and relief should have flooded in, instead she found herself sobbing, and clinging to Little John, who put his arms around her, offering her the same gruff comfort that she would once have received from her father.

It made her cry even harder.

“Come on, little one. I’ll take you home.”

Which he did, back to Sherwood.  
  
  
  
  



	9. Challenges

Robin sat, moodily flicking sticks into the fire. They’d arrived back at camp to find Marian sleeping; Little John had let the others know she was safe, when he left Nottingham with her.

Much – aware of how awkward things could soon become – was prattling on about how it was quite likely the sheriff _would_ come and take Clun’s oxen sometime.

“He did it to Nettlestone last year, remember? So, if Clun can’t pay their taxes, which no one ever can, it’ll surely just be a matter of time. The sheriff doesn’t have a care about how hard it makes it then to plough their fields, oh no, and how next year it will be harder again to pay what they owe…”

…it was a measure of his preoccupation that Robin refrained from telling him to shut up.

Robin knew Marian had had a scare that day, and he was sorry for it. But if she hadn’t been in Nottingham in the first place, she’d have known what was happening. He’d been furious, when he first found out.

_A_ _good_ _liar_ , he’d thought. _Takes_ _a_ _kernel_ _of_ _truth_ , _makes_ _it_ _more_ _believable_. He was surprised how much this bothered him. He knew Marian had lied to Gisborne, repeatedly, but it had always been with good cause. But now, seeing that she would lie to the gang… _will_ _she_ _lie_ _to me as well_?

It didn’t help that she’d ignored him by leaving the camp. He’d planned for them to go around the forest drops together that afternoon. He hadn’t told her that; he’d wanted to see if she’d co-operate, for his own peace of mind.

And all that had got him was to place him in a quandary, torn between seeing that thing with Carter through, and his worry for Marian’s safety. At least the fact they were going to Nottingham had meant – once their business with the sheriff was done – that they’d be able to look for her.

And her lie had ensured the gang had been handy to Clun when the guards began terrorising the villagers there. But, not the point. Robin still couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d made a fool of him, of all of them. 

He heard a small noise behind him then, and waited for Marian to join him. With the ease of practise, the gang slipped away, finding tasks elsewhere. 

She remained standing, beside the log.

“I thought you were dead,” she said dully, without preamble.

“I know,” Robin replied. He reached out his hand, and she took it; he squeezed, gently, and drew her down beside him. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

Marian leaned into him, relaxing her head against his shoulder. Robin knew she’d had a shock; so soon after Edward’s death, it was the last thing she needed. Marian ran her hand up and down his arm, reassuring herself of his solidity, of the fact that he was there. Robin didn’t want to upset her, but he wondered how to broach what needed to be said; things couldn’t go on this way.

“It was my own fault, you’re thinking.” Matter-of-fact. In the end, Marian did it for him. “But it was just as well I went, because I saw Allan….”

Robin sighed, interrupting her.

“Marian,” he said, even-toned, “you _can’t_ go off on your own like that. No one can, it isn’t safe…”

“….you do…”

He ignored this.

“…why do you think we go in pairs? There needs to be a watch. Always. Sure, it was Allan who spotted you today, but what if it had been someone else? You’re well known in the castle, and around town. There’s a reward out for you, and they’ll be talking about you….about Sir Edward….it’s news at the moment, everywhere. You need to lie low, at least until this dies down a bit. That’s why I wanted you to stay here.”

“But you didn’t tell me any of that. If you’d said….”

“I shouldn’t have to explain everything,” he said tersely.

“No, I should just be meek and obedient, and do what I’m told like a….like them…”

“If you want to look at it that way. Or you could just accept that we’re a team, and that if you want to be part of it then you need to co-operate.”

“Jump when you say jump, stay when you say stay….”

“Yes,” said Robin heatedly. “But you didn’t, did you? So, you’ll have to stay here, at camp, until you prove that you can be trusted…”

“Is that what this was all about?” Marian asked, voice taut, her eyes flashing. “You were _testing_ me?”

Robin hesitated; best not to admit to _that_. He tried a different approach.

“Do you _want_ to be here, with us? With me?” he asked.

The first crack in her brave façade appeared; Robin saw pain flicker through her expression, quickly masked, but with it his anger immediately melted away.

“What I _want_ ,” she said, “is for none of this to have happened. For my father to still be alive…”

“Come here,” Robin said softly.

He pulled her into his embrace, and Marian nestled against his chest. He stroked her hair, feeling it soft against his palm. She had no one but them now, he realised, so it had been a cruel question. Unintentionally, but Robin kicked himself. Did she think he’d send her away? Nothing could be further from the truth, or from what was in his heart. His hand came to rest against her head, holding her close.

“Let’s not fight,” he murmured into her hair. “We need to make it work. But I need to lead, Marian, you know that I do.”

She pulled away slightly, leaning back to look at him. Her eyes glistened; he reached up, thumbing a tear from beneath one eye.

“Come on,” he coaxed, “you haven’t told me yet what Allan had to say.”

They linked fingers, as Marian recounted Allan’s message.

“It’s not a trap, I’m certain of it.” Marian paused a heartbeat, then continued. “Guy knows I’ll come with you…he’d do nothing to harm me.”

Robin hid his irritation, both at the assumption he’d take her along and at the faith which, for some reason, she always placed in his enemy. He never could understand what Gisborne had done to deserve it, beyond follow her around like some lovesick fool.

It was a strange request. Something about the king, Allan had said…which could either be true, or a lure. Unlike Marian, he didn’t trust Gisborne’s motives. Whatever the man said, he was back in Vaisey’s service, after spending only one night in the dungeons. Robin wasn't sure that even knowing Marian was the Nightwatchman would make his pursuit of her cease. Gisborne had been intense as a youth; he was no different now.

“Robin…did you hear me?” Marian nudged his leg.

“No, what?”

“That girl in the dungeons…Meg Bennett…Allan said Guy and she are to be wed this coming Saturday. The sheriff’s ordered it.”

Robin gave a low whistle.

“Well, that’s what he gets for laying it about with a nobleman’s daughter.”

“Don’t be so crude,” Marian reprimanded.

“Since when were you so prim?” he teased.

And when he saw Marian flush, Robin knew exactly what she was thinking.

“I agree,” he said softly. “Maybe not so prim.”

They’d kept up a semblance of sleeping apart, but each night, once the camp was settled, they’d sought each other out. Marian needed the comfort he gave her. But there was a brittleness about her. He felt it in the frantic undertone of her caresses, as if she might shatter apart; and a vulnerability, one he didn’t want to take advantage of.

It bemused Robin. Here Marian was, willing to be with him, and yet he knew the time wasn’t right. He’d never waited before, not with any woman. But this wasn’t _any_ woman; this was Marian.

Because of that, sometimes - in their most passionate moments – it was hard to remember his reasons. Yet, they existed. There were certain things he should tell her, even ask her first, but it was hard to do this when there was such a niggling lack of accord between them. It had characterised all her days at camp so far, arguments flaring up without warning or preamble. Part of this was her father’s death, he knew; Marian wasn’t herself, she needed to grieve. She needed time to come to terms with all this change. It wasn’t the time for discussions about their future, or for her to be having life-changing experiences.

“What? What is it?”

Marian had felt his slight smile beneath her fingertips.

“I was just thinking about us...you know, about us being together. About it being a life-changing experience.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, handsome.” Robin could hear her smile in the dark.

“I thought you might say that.” He’d lifted his hand, stroking her cheek.

“So - challenge accepted….” he murmured.

She’d been sitting at the edge of the low bed. Robin had knelt there, between her thighs, and as he stroked them they had opened wider to him like a bloom to the sun. He held there, his tip nudging against her entrance. Where the slightest movement would sheathe him. Almost forgetting to breathe, he and Marian both, Marian panting softly, her hands feathering the back of his neck. And Robin had rested there, or thought he had, perhaps easing in a little further than intended, where the sensation of being so close, of wanting to bury himself, became almost unbearable. He could already feel the flutter of her response, just waiting for him to unleash _more_ …..a single thrust, that was all it would take….

“Don’t you want me?” A heart-breaking whisper in the dark; it had stunned him.

…Robin moaned.

“Let me show you….” he brushed her face with his knuckles, as they both _felt_ the promise of what it would be like when they joined, “…just how much….”

And Robin pulled back, while he still could. His lips took hers, a plunging kiss that mirrored exactly what he longed to do with his body.

“There are many ways we can be together….”

Determined to leave her in no doubt, Robin had lowered himself, widening her legs further. He kissed a path along one of her thighs, revelling in Marian’s soft moans as he settled there; feeling the gentle pressure on his scalp as her roaming fingertips finally succumbed to clasping his hair. He felt her body move instinctively to his caresses. She moaned softly. Those small sounds drove him to quicken his movements, until finally a violent shudder rocked through Marian, the sweet delirium of her response locking him in place. Afterwards, as he slowly withdrew his hand, Marian had hidden her face against his shoulder. But it was moments only; overcoming her shyness – distracted by his ardent kisses, as he tilted her head up - she’d wrapped her fingers around him with more assurance than the last time. He wasn’t a man to lose control readily, but to be with her like _this_ , his own bold, beautiful, beloved Marian, to feel her respond so to him…..he’d been so aroused she could probably have done nothing but take hold, and he still would have come apart in her hand. But she’d done more than that; and he had.

He grew hot, now, just thinking about it. This intimacy between them, it was something new, and precious. Their eyes met, and Marian’s small, private smile made his heart turn over; he lifted her hand, pressing it to his lips.

“Oh, please.” They drew apart, startled, as Much stomped back into the camp, dropping a hare by the fire-pit. There was the snap of branches nearby, Djaq and Will’s voices debating something. “Don’t tell me we have to go out again, because if we do, I don’t know how I’m supposed to ever cook a meal.”

“No Much, we’re just talking,” Marian told him.

“Talking is good,” muttered Much, drawing his knife and sitting down to start skinning the hare. “Yes, talking is fine, better than shouting.”

“And you’re wrong about Guy,” Marian went on, resuming their conversation. “He’d only met Meg once before, she knocked you off him that day you tried to drown him.”

“I knew I’d seen her before, though I was half underwater myself at the time. But I wasn’t really going to, you know,” he said, with a playful grin. “Drown Gisborne, that is.”

“You could have fooled me,” Marian said tartly. She paused, then asked the question Robin had been hoping he’d managed to dodge. “That thing he said, in the dungeon, I’ve been meaning to ask you about that. What did he mean, when he said you’d seen him driven away once? What happened?”

“Didn’t he tell you himself?” stalled Robin. “I’d have thought he’d use any opportunity he could to wring sympathy from you.”

“You’re wrong,” she said again. “Guy’s a proud man. He wouldn’t tell me anything if he thought it would make me pity him.”

Robin gazed at her for a few moments, then came to a decision.

“I’ll tell you some other time,” he muttered. 

Sensing Marian about to press the issue, he rose.

“Come on, we’ll get the food ready for tomorrow’s drops. And Friday night, we’ll meet Gisborne. Or I will.” He held up a hand, forestalling her protest. “You can come, but you’ll have to stay out of sight. I don’t trust him.”

“But who will you take in with you? You shouldn’t go alone, and of everyone here I’m the closest thing he’d have to an ally.”

“You think?” scoffed Robin. “It’s just as likely to send him into a rage, seeing us together. No, Marian. Until I know what his intentions are, it’s too dangerous for you to be seen.”

She seemed to accept this and Robin hoped, for the sake of their tentative accord, that it was genuine assent.

                                               -----------------------------------------------------------------

“Robin – come quickly.” Short of breath, two mornings later Much rushed into the camp. “A messenger….from the King. He says he’ll only speak to you, but he’s hurt. Bad.”

Robin, bow in hand, was already running.

“Djaq!” he called, over his shoulder.

A few minutes only to reach the tree. There Robin saw a prone figure, his wooden crutch lying nearby. On the other side of the tree lay a rumpled cage, a hump of feathers twisted amongst the basket weave. Blood smeared the rock where the impact had killed the bird.

Djaq knelt by the injured messenger, checking for injuries. After a few moments, she glanced up and shook her head. Robin took her place, kneeling by his head, setting his bow and arrows down. The messenger moaned quietly.

“Robin.” It took visible effort, as the man tried to raise his head. 

“Shhh…..I know you. McLellan.”

The messenger drew a missive from his belt, holding it out for Robin to take.

“Save your strength,” Robin murmured.

He took the message, turning it over in his hand, noting the unmistakeable royal seal. But the man had more to tell him, fingers scrabbling at his sleeve.

“Lardner,” he said, looking up into the branches overhead. Then, more insistently: “Lardner.”

Robin looked up, then glanced a warning at Djaq, Much, and Marian.

“I see it. You’ve done what the king wished then, my friend; rest easy. We’ll do the rest.”

Satisfied, the king’s messenger lay back. As he relaxed, his life’s last breath sighed out of him. Robin glanced up, saw Marian’s taut face, and quietly led her away from the body. As Much drew a cloak over McLellan’s face, Djaq followed. They went to stand over the broken cage. Djaq dropped to one knee, sadly straightening the bird’s neck.

“Lardner….” she murmured. “The Sultan’s best pigeon, he uses them to carry messages. Which makes me wonder how King Richard came to be using him.”

Marian laid a hand to Djaq’s shoulder in comfort.

“Let's find out,” Robin said, breaking the king’s seal.

“You know why they send these birds?” Djaq asked, as she got to her feet. “They’ll return from anywhere, but it isn’t their home they’re searching for, it’s their mate. All you have to do is split the two of them up, and a pigeon will carry a message to the ends of the earth faster and straighter than any man ever could, just to be with the one they love.”

“Which means there will be one left on her own now,” murmured Marian. “This one will never return.”

She glanced at Robin, who was slowly re-folding the letter.

“What does it say?” she asked quietly, and straight away, because she needed to find out.

Because if he was going to leave her again, she would need to find some way to bear it. 

“He wants reinforcements, more men. He wants me to send a note back with Lardner, telling him how many men I can recruit and when I’ll arrive.”

Marian gazed at Robin. They had been here before.

Last time, they were betrothed, she a young girl, so madly in love that when he’d told her he was following his king to war, the hurt had been so great it persisted for five long years. It made her hold him at arm’s length when he returned. He’d left her once; how could she trust him not to hurt her again? Had he even felt the same as she had for him, a love so deep and true that she couldn’t imagine ever loving another? And she still felt that way. He made her heart soar and sing; when she’d seen him on that cart the other day, the thought of having lost him again had bled joy and hope from her more swiftly than a spear thrust could steal a soldier’s life.

And yet. Things had not been easy, since her father’s death. Since coming to the forest something had shifted between them, some balance, which made her feel less like Robin’s equal than she had before. In her heart Marian knew he wanted to protect her, that he was trying to find the right equilibrium himself. But until they did, they were like a glove that should have fitted perfectly but didn't, that wouldn’t sit quite right on the hand.

It made her feel vulnerable now, as Robin turned the message over and over. Was he really thinking about it? What _was_ he thinking? Marian wished she knew. In fact, there were so many things she wished he would tell her. But even in the depths of night, when they both gave and received pleasure as quietly as they could, in a camp full of trying-not-to-listen ears…. even then, as his touch inflamed her, as passion wrung her name from his lips, he withheld the words of love she so craved. Just as he withheld their union.

Oddly enough it was that last, only, which gave her hope. It would be just like Robin, she thought, to wait until they were betrothal-bound. It was the honourable thing to do; her father would have wanted him to treat her so, she knew. But as day succeeded day, and as tensions simmered between them, and no proposal was forthcoming, that hope seemed to sit more uneasily within her, as if it were a sop to the feelings of rejection which, were it not for Robin’s willingness to share other intimacies with her, could have taken a fully-fledged hold.

And now this. He couldn’t leave her again, could he? So soon after her father’s death? _I will say as much. Let him know where I stand, at least. If he left me again, I would never, ever forgive him._

“Well, you can’t do that now, can you?”

“I know I’m meant to be loyal and obedient, but…..” he began.

_But_. Marian could have wept with relief. That single word was all she needed to hear.

“…..the King doesn’t know the facts. But when he does, from Carter, he’ll return home.”

She would make absolutely certain, though.

“And this is no time for you to go back to the Holy Land.”

“We’re agreed then,” said Robin. Then, glancing down at the bird: “This is a pity, though. If Gisborne does know something, which we’ll find out soon enough, this would have been the perfect way to get his information back to the king.”

“Well, we’ll find another way,” Much put in. “But for now, we’ve a corpse to bury.”

“And quickly,” said Marian. “Someone must have been pursuing him, for him to have gone to the trouble of trying to hide the cage up there.”

“Agreed. So, let’s not waste any time.”

“I’ll get the shovel,” offered Much, loping off in the direction of the camp.

Marian began picking up the messenger’s belongings – crutch, satchel, cage – while Djaq disposed of the dead pigeon. Robin selected a patch of ground, and they collected the rocks which would mark the grave. Much returned with shovel and pieces of wood which Will had swiftly fashioned into a cross. Marian watched Robin engrave McLellan’s name on it with the tip of his dagger, and with difficulty held back her tears, thinking that she still didn’t even know where her father was buried.

Perhaps Guy would know. So, she would ask him.

She would get the chance tomorrow night.  



	10. Overtures

The barn at Knighton had mostly escaped damage. There were a few patches of singed thatch, where stray sparks had landed. But the villagers, Guy assumed, must have reacted soon enough to stop it taking hold. He wouldn’t know; by then, he’d already led Marian and her father away.

Guy dismounted and tied off his horse, gazing at the manor ruins. He suspected it was a mistake to come here, especially if Hood brought Marian with him. But Hood would never have agreed to meet with him at Locksley, even if Guy dismissed his guards for the evening. And what excuse could he have given? If the sheriff caught even a whiff of what he was doing, plot or no plot he’d be dead before sunrise. Nor was Guy fool enough to suggest a meeting in the forest. Knighton had been the closest thing to neutral territory he could think of.

But of all his crimes, burning Knighton had been one of the worst. He couldn’t claim he’d done it on Vaisey’s orders; he’d been blinded by rage, and by the desire to hurt Marian as much as she’d hurt him. The power had been almost intoxicating, as he’d wielded that torch; the first lick of flames, caressing wood, fabric, almost mesmerising. But then the _whoomph_ of the flames taking hold, becoming wild, untameable, _that_ had filled him with memory and fear and he’d felt again as he had as a youth, powerless in the face of something he couldn’t stop, unable to do anything but hustle Marian out of the house, and unable to reverse the terrible consequences of his actions.

_Powerless_. Yes. That was how he’d felt since discovering Vaisey’s plans for him. It had left him strangely incapable of making decisions, perhaps because whatever course of action he chose seemed as futile as the next. He wasn’t even sure this was the right one; he wouldn’t be here at all, if it wasn’t for Meg’s urging. That was another example. It seemed there was no escaping this marriage and Meg had chosen – for reasons he couldn’t fathom – to accept it, rather than flee to sanctuary as he’d suggested. _So, do I just resign myself to this, or do I take a horse, and some coin, and leave here, head back to Normandy, or elsewhere, and start all over again? On my own._

It might yet come to that.

But for now, Meg had convinced him that Hood could be the answer to his problems. Hard to imagine, that. Would Locksley bring Marian with him tonight? He hoped not. He needed a clear head, and the torrent of emotions that woman always provoked would hardly help him keep his wits about him.

Beside him, Allan tripped in the dark, cursing. Meg had wanted to come with them, but Guy had quashed that idea. This was no business of hers; _no_ , _only_ _my_ _idea_ she’d said tartly, but then had let it drop. Guy was glad to have Allan there. Not because he trusted him yet – he didn’t trust anyone – but who better to help broker an alliance with the outlaws?

They reached the barn. The door was ajar, lantern light showing in the gap, and spilling through cracks in the wall. Hood was already there – Hood, and his Saracen. Guy remembered the woman incapacitating him with nothing more than pepper, and knew not to be complacent. His eyes flickered round the barn, assessing possible places of concealment – the stacked hay, the rough piles of implements, the plough still caked with mud. He didn’t for a moment think Hood would have kept the terms he proposed; the rest of the gang, even if not inside the barn, would be lurking somewhere within earshot.

“Gisborne, Allan. You’re late.” A cocky, infuriating grin. “If you want to scout the territory out, best to get here first.”

Guy gritted his teeth, determined not to let the outlaw rile him straight away. Forty-five minutes ahead of schedule, yet still not enough to prevent Hood treating him like a fool.

“Have a seat.” The outlaw gestured to two milking stools; he and the Saracen were perched on upturned wooden buckets. Guy caught the twitch of Locksley’s lips, and suspected he was on the verge of delivering some witticism about milking maids.

“No - I’ll stand,” Guy said gruffly.

“So formal…. suit yourself. Now, tell me why we’re here. Allan told Marian you had news about the king?”

Guy gazed at his nemesis, at his relaxed posture, while here he stood, arms folded, wondering what the hell he was doing here…about to confess a plot of treason to a man who already knew he’d once tried to kill the king. Who’d taken his own blade between the ribs, and yet still managed to prevent a regicide.

Sweat poured beneath his leathers. Suddenly, running seemed like a good idea – from this barn, from Vaisey, from everything. It would do Meg a favour. He’d avoid her – then he wouldn’t have to report this failure. _Or_ _my_ _complete_ _and_ _utter_ l _oss of nerve._

Guy turned and strode to the door, away from Hood’s mocking gaze.

“We’re waiting, Gisborne.”

The scent of turned earth on the breeze. A moonless night, a swallowing dark. A life wasted. Treachery, subordination to a creature whose schemes he now, if he chose, had the chance to finally be free of. Meg’s words came back to him. _You’ve_ _nothing_ _to_ _lose_. Damn right he didn’t. His life was a pathetic mess.

But he wouldn’t run from it; he’d at least see what came from this chance Meg had persuaded him to take.

“Guy?” Allan had come up beside him.

“Vaisey plans to kill the king,” Guy said dully, without turning. “In the Holy Land.”

“What?”

Mildly gratified, he heard the scrape of the bucket as Hood shot to his feet, not sure he’d heard him correctly. Guy still faced outwards, into the night, as he continued. Let Hood strain to hear him; at least he had him on his feet. Had his full attention now.

“We leave in a month or so. He wants me to do it. Only it won’t be me, it’ll be someone else. I’ll just be dead and blamed for it.”

The staccato phrases fell into a barn so still that it could have been empty. Guy finally broke the silence, turning back to the open space.

“Nothing to say for once, Locksley?” he sneered.

“At least I understand now why you’re here,” the outlaw said thoughtfully. “Come on, let’s talk.”

The Saracen and Allan moved off to one side, leaving them free to take the seats in the centre of the barn.

“What about Shah Mat?” Hood asked intently. “Does this mean the sheriff’s given up on it?”

“No. This plot may not succeed, and he likes to have plenty of options. But he sees this way as preferable to having to deal with a Crusader army landing back on English soil.”

“No doubt,” muttered the outlaw. “A month, then, you say? Well, we have time to plan. What will you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Now.” Hood said impatiently. “Will you stay in Vaisey’s service?”

“Of course.”

“And you’ll go with him? To the Holy Land?”

“I don’t have much choice, do I?” Guy said acidly.

“Good.” The outlaw rubbed his hands together energetically. “Then Vaisey won’t suspect anything. Nor will he expect to see us there.”

“Where?”

“The Holy Land, of course. We’ll take ship before you do, make sure we’re there, and prepared.”

“For what?” Guy asked warily.

“We’ll warn the king, naturally.” The outlaw got up, pacing restlessly. “But we’ll need to find out more. Vaisey can’t be acting alone…if he plans to use someone else for this, it suggests he’s got someone there, someone whose identity they want to keep a secret. So, if we can find out who that someone is, we can properly eliminate the danger.”

“To me, as well as to the king,” Guy felt compelled to clarify.

“Naturally,” Hood agreed.

He sat back down, a restless energy emanating from him.

“We’ll need to communicate, if this is to work. If you have anything we need to know, send Allan.”

“Of course,” snapped Guy.

He glanced sourly back at the younger man, who’d obviously known, all along, how to find the camp. Allan gave a sheepish shrug.

“And to all intents and purposes, it’s business as usual?”

“It is,” agreed Guy.

“Good. Then we’re done here, I think.”

“Wait,” said Guy. “There’s one more thing. You have the pact…I want it back. It has my name on it, and its proof of treason.”

Guy saw the outlaw’s eyes harden.

“What does that matter?” he asked, suspiciously. “When I warn the king, I’ll tell him you were our source, and that he owes his life to you.”

“It’s proof of treason,” Guy said stubbornly. “If anything goes wrong, if for any reason you didn’t reach the king…”

“….then you’re a dead man, and it won’t matter what your name’s on then.”

“I still want it. For myself, not for Vaisey. Insurance you’ll aim to keep me alive, as well as the king. When all this is done, if I survive you get it back. You’ll still have your proof to use against the Black Knights.”

“You don’t trust me!” exclaimed Hood, mock-wounded.

“No. I don’t.”

“Well it’s mutual.” The outlaw stood abruptly, knocking the bucket over. “And I think Vaisey put you up to this. I think it’s all a lie, a ruse to get his pact back.”

“I should have known,” growled Guy.

He’d had enough.

In a single move, he shot to his feet and shoulder-charged the slighter man. But Hood, light-footed as ever, anticipated him.

“Oi.”

Allan’s shout reached Guy dimly, as a well-placed blow knocked the breath from him. He landed a couple of his own, then managed to trap Hood’s arms and propel him back into the barn wall. Hood grunted, winded by the impact, but he leveraged off the wall, charging them out into the centre of the barn. Fists swung, some blows more accurate than others; Guy almost tripped over a stool, but had the presence of mind to scoop it up and swung it at the outlaw’s head. Locksley blocked, taking the impact – that would surely have knocked him out – on the forearm. The outlaw let fly a series of punches that drove Guy back until he stumbled out of the half-open doors into the night outside, tumbling onto the hard-packed earth.

Hood hurtled after him, hauling him half up, delivering a vicious punch that snapped his head to one side. Stunned, Guy shook it to clear the pain. Hood was on him again, relentless. Enraged, Guy surged up, roaring, with a blow that doubled the outlaw over. All his recent frustrations, of losing Marian, of the futility of having listened to Meg, of thinking he could treat with his enemy and that there might be some way out... the accumulation of all these gave him added strength. He launched himself at the outlaw, grappling him, managing to get an arm about his neck.

It was as if a flag had dropped at a tourney; several things happened at once. Hood's fist drove into his gut, forcing him to release.

“No…stop!”

_Marian_.

Her on one side of him; on the other the Saracen, backing away, lowering a drawn dagger. 

"Not fair," he accused.

"Don't care," the Saracen replied, implacable.

_They all love him. _Even Allan, Guy thought; he couldn't bring himself to wholly betray the man. Guy counted that betrayal less, but it was still enough to wound.__

__

__With a roar of frustration, he lashed out, a kick that sent the outlaw sprawling into the dirt. Panting, his face smeared with sweat and dirt, straw and dust on his leathers, Guy stumbled back, leaning one hand against the barn wall._ _

____

“I should have known you’d be here,” he snarled at Marian. “And that you’d only show your face to save _him_.”

“Think again, Gisborne," taunted Hood.

Something thudded into the dirt at his feet, and Guy stooped to pick it up. His own curved blade; Locksley had plucked it from his leathers.

“Marian,” he heard Hood growl, “I told you to stay out of sight.”

Guy didn’t wait to hear more. This had been a fool’s errand; he’d told Meg it would be. Ignoring Hood and Marian, he stumbled towards his horse. Allan ran out of the barn, and grabbed his arm. Guy winced, and shook him free.

“Listen, Guy, just take a minute to…”

“No,” he snapped. “I’m done here.”

Concealing the difficulty this took, Guy mounted, and spurred the horse away without a glance back.

He’d tried. And now his position was worse than ever. Locksley knew of their plans, so he’d betrayed Vaisey and in return received nothing – no assurances, no promise of aid, no pact. As the horse galloped along the darkened road, Guy found the temptation strong to just keep going. He might have nothing but his clothes, his wits and his mount….

….NO!

Once before, Hood had seen him driven away, with not much less than that. It wouldn’t happen again. He would find a way, he would find some solution.

Face set, grinding his teeth against the onset of aches, Guy set the mare’s path back towards Locksley.  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note to whoever is following the story - as well as a huge thank you, it's great to have you along! - I aim to update fortnightly although occasionally, like this week, I may manage a weekly one.


	11. Decisions

Marian glared at Robin, her hands placed staunchly on her hips.

“How could you? After all we’ve been through, to decide just like that – on the strength of one conversation - that you are going back to the Holy Land?” she accused.

“What would you suggest I do?” protested Robin.

The rest of the gang, aware of what was coming, had taken themselves off. Again. They had the barn to themselves.

“At least talk to me about it,” she said hotly.

“We’re talking now. So, tell me, what would you have me do? The king’s life is in danger – he needs to be warned. There’s no use sending a messenger, look what happened to Roger of Stokes. It needs to be me.”

“Everything doesn’t always have to be you, Robin.” Marian thought for a few moments. “What about that Crusader who was just here? The one I thought had killed you. He’s only been gone a few days, if you know what port he plans to leave from perhaps we could…”

“No. There’s another reason I should go. If Vaisey will be there, just think, we’ll finally have the chance to be rid of him. Whatever happens to him in the Holy Land is unlikely to bring Prince John’s wrath down on Nottingham.”

Marian gazed at him in silence, absorbing this thought.

“You plan to kill him?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m coming with you.”

“No. It’s too dangerous.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Robin…then I’m supposed to just sit here while you ride off to save the king and England…”

“Someone needs to stay. To look after the people.”

“It’s not going to happen,” Marian said stubbornly. “I won’t be left behind.”

Robin stepped towards her, and took hold of her hands.

“Marian, listen to me, please. I can’t risk it. I know what it’s like over there, and if I had to worry all the time about your safety…”

“So I’m a hindrance….”

“…I didn’t say that…it would be different if I could trust you….”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, look at tonight. I asked you to stay out of sight, for your own safety.”

“It’s true I don’t always obey you.” Marian shook her hands free. “But then neither do the others. And you trust _them_ – you trust them to be able to make decisions, you respect that they have that right and that ability, and yet you don’t give it to me?”

“You ask me to trust you, yet you lied to the gang – to all of us – that day you went into Nottingham.”

She turned away; he could hear tears in her voice when she spoke again.

“I can’t believe I’m having to explain this, to you of all people. I thought you would understand. But you’re smothering me. I thought this would be different. I thought that we would be different to this. That we would be so much _better_.”

The hurt and reproach in those words snagged at his heart. _Is she right?_ Snaking in, the thought troubled him.

“I can’t stand it, Robin. If you’d let us be true partners, if you’d let me use my skills to help you…. as it is, I feel I can do less here than I ever could before. It’s like I can’t move, or breathe, without your say-so. And now _this_ ….”

She was crying now, he realised. He moved to hold her, putting his arms about her waist, leaning down to rest his face against her hair. She didn’t push him away, but neither did she turn into his embrace.

“I don’t want it to be like this,” she went on.

“Then it won’t be,” he assured her, turning her to face him. The misery in her expression underscored her words. But what she said next stunned him.

“I wonder if, perhaps, we should have some time apart.” Tears seeped from her eyes.

Robin caught his lower lip between his teeth, wholly nonplussed.

“What are you saying?” He slid a hand beneath her hair, caressing her cheek with his thumb.

“That I’ll leave, to let us both think about things.”

“But….where would you go?”

“To Lady Glasson. She’s far enough away from Nottingham that my presence wouldn’t be a danger. It’s where I’d planned to send Meg, if she’d agreed.”

“So, you’ve been thinking about this?” he said, not sure what hurt the most: the fact that she was thinking of leaving him, or the thought that he’d driven her to it.

“I think it’s for the best.” She caught his hand, pressed a kiss to his knuckle, and then stepped away. “We should be getting back. I’ll leave tomorrow.”

Marian walked out of the barn, leaving him to gather up his weapons and extinguish the lantern. It was a mild night, clouds blotting a rising, near-full moon. When Robin came out and started to walk, he already couldn’t see where she was. Huffing, he broke into a trot to catch up.

“Marian,” he said urgently when he did, catching hold of her elbow, “don’t do this. We can fix it.”

“I don’t see how. I won’t be made to watch you leave again.”

Robin was silent.

Marian walked on; he followed some paces behind. How had they come to this? And so soon? He’d wanted to offer Marian sanctuary, to protect and comfort her, and yet because he wouldn’t let her do whatever she wanted she felt _smothered_?

But, if he was honest with himself, Robin could see some justice in her accusations. _I thought we’d be so much better._ He recalled those times in the past when they had acted in concert, and how right it had felt. But together, alone, it didn’t matter. Her independence, her boldness, her quick intelligence…her selflessness, working alongside him when the induced plague hit Nottingham …

….she was all he could ever want. He knew this. Not only as the partner of his heart, but as his partner in everything. But now….this, what she was asking?

No one came back unchanged from the Holy Land - not him, not Much, nor Carter, nor any of the other damaged souls who’d crossed their path. This time he wouldn’t be battling Saracens, but it would be no different. If what Gisborne had revealed was true, and if he was right in suspecting a traitor in the king’s camp, then their enemy would be even more dangerous for being faceless and unknown.

Robin knew he had to go. But to take Marian, to _risk_ Marian?

_If I don’t, I will lose her._ For good, this time. Robin was as certain of this as he was that she meant what she said, that she would leave him tomorrow rather than be left behind.

Unless he could convince her otherwise.

“Marian,” he called softly.

She halted, her figure a dark shadow on the path up ahead.

“Don’t go.” Marian turned to face him. “I’ve been....”

“What, overbearing? Unreasonable?” Robin could hear both a smile and tears in her voice. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

He closed the gap between them.

“Alright then, I will.” Robin took her hands in his, holding perhaps tighter than he intended, trying to find the words that would keep her with him. “Marian – I _have_ to do this, you know that I do….”

“…history repeating itself,” she murmured.

“You think I want to go? That I would _want_ to leave you? Years ago I was wrong, but at the time it felt like what I had to do….”

Marian ran her hands up and down his sleeves, stroking his arms.

“You think I don’t see that now?” she said. “When you live this way, after all you’ve given up? It’s one of the reasons I love you, it’s why I would follow you to the ends of this world, if only you’d let me. If only you’d let me make my own choices.”

“That’s one of the things I love about you…” Robin lifted a hand, caressing her face.

“….does that mean I can….”

Exasperated, he laughed.

“...so determined…..”

“Robin. Will you take me with you, or not?”

“Look, what I’ve been trying to say…..remember that messenger the other day, and all that business with the pigeon….”

“You want to talk about the bird. Now?” she asked, puzzled.

“No. Well, yes. Because that’s what it was like for me,” he murmured, his arms finally going around her. “I’ve wanted to tell you that when things were bad over there – which was most of the time - I always knew I had to get back. Sometimes it kept me alive. And what Djaq said about those pigeons, that they’ll cross the earth and its oceans to be with the one they love…well, that’s how I felt about you. It’s how I still feel.”

He cupped her face, desperate now to make her understand.

“And I didn’t return, across those years and thousands of miles, and then watch you endanger yourself spying for me, just to lose you now because I don’t want to take you back there - to a place that’s a living hell on earth. Because Marian…”

He choked to a halt, glad the darkness hid his emotion.

“…..if anything happened to you…” he whispered. “I cannot be what I am, or do what I do, without you.”

“I love you more than you can possibly know, Robin of Locksley,” she said fiercely, embracing him.

“But I can’t be a talisman to anyone,” she went on, drawing back in his arms. “Not even for you. We have work to do, Robin, and I want us to do it together. Let me fight beside you. If you want someone who’ll sit at home and do embroidery, then I’m not that woman, and I never will be….”

“…it’s _you_ that I want,” he murmured.

“And yes, one of us could die,” Marian went on, “but that could happen here, any time. I thought it had, that day I saw you laid out on the cart. I saw then what the world would be like without you, and what my life would be like, and I couldn’t have borne it. Not a day of it. Not a single moment.”

Her fingers grasped at his sleeves, and this rare glimpse of her vulnerability disarmed Robin. 

“So please, don’t ask it of me. Don’t ask me to wait here and wonder if the next time….”

“Shhh,” he said. “I won’t, my love, I won’t….”

And whether she moved first, or he did, they flowed together then in a fierce embrace, trying to banish these spectres of loss. They shared deep, fevered kisses, Marian’s hands twining behind his neck, her eager response whetting Robin’s desire to show her - in this and all their nights to come - all the pleasures he possibly could.

“Make us one,” she murmured against his lips, words of such sweet promise that Robin groaned into the kiss, and he buried his hands further in the lush tumble of hair which, thanks to his efforts, now fell freely around her shoulders.

“Here. Now.”

Robin drew back a little, both torn and tempted.

“Are you sure?” he asked, nuzzling her face tenderly. “Forest floors aren’t all you might think.”

“I’m sure they’re not. I’m sure there are twigs, and branches in annoying places, and prickly grasses…but Robin, I want us to be together. I don’t want to wait any longer. “

“Have you thought how close we are to Knighton? Just one villager, out late for any reason, and here we are by the forest path….”

Marian gave a choked laugh.

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

They stood caressing each other’s faces, their ardour scarcely cooled by this dose of practicality. Marian trembled a little in his arms.

“Robin….” she whispered.

“I know, my love…” he brushed the tip of his nose against hers, and then stood back, gazing at her. “I know.”

They couldn’t bear not to be touching, now, the anticipation so acute that Robin was sorely tempted to give in, to let the forest path, the moon, and any hapless villager out wandering late be witness to their joining.

But he had a thought.

“Come with me,” he said. “I know a place.”

He laced their fingers then and, brushing through bracken, they left the path and hastened deeper into the forest, along a route which they’d taken many times before, in the long-ago days of their first courtship.  
  
  



	12. Memories, Old and New

They didn’t speak. Sure-footed in the dark, clouds obscuring the moon, Robin led her towards the grand old oak beneath which so many of their youthful encounters had taken place.

It had been one of his favourite places, before it became theirs. He’d taken her there the first time, Marian remembered, because she’d been trying to climb a different tree, one which he’d shimmied up with annoying ease. Her own efforts – hampered by skirts – had seen her storm off in frustration, heading back towards Knighton. She’d had enough.

“Marian, I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have laughed.” Robin had caught her up, apologetic, teasing a smile from her. “Come on, I know somewhere it’ll be easier. I’ll show you.”

This oak, with its gnarled and pitted bole, with a handily-placed knot or two that gave footholds just where she needed them, while Robin waited on the branch above to clasp her arm and pull her up, this had been the perfect spot. Up on its lowest limb, a wide and sturdy branch where they could either lie, top to tail, or sit in the cusped-out hollow where it adjoined the trunk….. this was where they’d spent many hours, as their friendship became something more, as they became sweethearts, lying beneath its spreading foliage, sharing kisses and mostly innocent caresses.

This was where Robin had asked her to marry him. Even in the dark, Marian could remember where the entwined hearts were that they’d engraved in the trunk, intoxicated by the sweet elation of the moment, and the almost surreal joy with which they’d hastened to tell her father.

Marian ran her hands over the ridged hearts. Her memories, carved into this living tree.

Here, too, was where Robin had told her he was leaving.

Her fingers skimmed across the bark. Her happiest moments, and the most painful; this oak had witnessed them all.

“Do you know,” she said, leaning back against Robin, his arms around her waist, “I was so angry with you after you left that I often thought about obliterating these hearts.”

“Why didn’t you?” he asked softly.

“I just couldn’t. It was too final. Worse, even, than returning your ring. While these hearts were still here, I felt that we were still somehow connected. That even if….”

Marian paused; old hurts. She’d been wrong to bring them up again, after all that had just been said.

“What?” Robin asked, stroking soft circles on her belly. The sensation made it hard for her to concentrate.

“….that even if you didn’t mean the things you’d said, I had. To gouge these out…it would have been to deny our love. And I couldn’t do it.”

“My love, I’m so sorry,” he murmured against her hair. “I should never have left, I know that now. I learned it long ago. But there wasn’t a moment…..”

…she turned in his arms, her hands on his waist….

“…not a single moment, that you weren’t lodged in my heart….”

“I wish,” Marian sighed, “that you had told me this when you first got back.”

Robin gave a wry chuckle.

“Well, I might have done, if I hadn’t had an arrow pointing at me.”

Guilt swamped Marian; they had both made so many mistakes. Foolish ones. She’d spent so long pushing him away, instead of showing what was truly in her heart. Protecting herself, afraid to show her love, afraid not only because she couldn’t trust him not to hurt her, but because she knew that she could lose him at any time.

But she couldn’t lose what she had never had.

“We’ve wasted so much time,” she said. “Kiss me, Robin. I don’t want to waste another moment.”

“Not even if it’s so I can ask you….” A hesitation; slight, but it was just enough to make Marian wonder what was wrong. If he denied her now…

“…..to marry me?” A hand came up, stroking the hair tenderly back from her face. “That’s why I brought you here. We can’t change the past, but we can start over, here and now - and even though I’ve nothing to offer you – “

“You offer yourself, that’s more than enough,” Marian said fiercely, a joy so intense bubbling up inside her that before Robin could say another word she flung her arms around his neck, her own words pouring out, words pent up for far too long, words she could no longer contain.

“….Robin, I don’t care that we must live in the forest…..I don’t care about titles, or land, or fine clothes and fancy things….you’re the only man I’ve ever loved, or wanted to love me. I prayed for so long you’d come back to me. In the end I gave that up and just prayed that you would live. And now that you have….”

Emotions finally choked her – that this was happening, _finally_ ….

“….shhh…you brought me home,” Robin soothed, caressing her face. “I couldn’t sleep, sometimes, wondering if you’d wed someone else. I had to come back, to see if there was a chance we could be together. So, will you…”

…snatched kisses punctuated their words now...

“….be… my wife?”

“Yes…of course, yes.”

They clung together then, words fading into the background, except for murmured endearments that flowed like honeyed wine through their embraces. And Marian knew that _this _time, Robin wouldn’t hold back. That this time, nothing would hinder their joining. Pleasurable as their other explorations had been, she wanted this now, with Robin, in a way that was unlike anything she’d ever desired before.__

____

“Robin…please….I want us to be as close as we can be…..”

Her urging was unnecessary. Already her blouse was coming undone, the night’s coolness washing over her as the fabric was pushed aside. Exposed, the night air swathed her breasts, except where the heat of Robin’s lips branded her bare skin. But it was different, this time. Marian felt passion ignite in him like something banked down before, something that would burst from its bounds and carry her inexorably along with it.

“….so beautiful…” he murmured, his breath a whisper against oh-so-sensitive skin.

His touch warmed her, both inside and out. She caressed his hair. With his head at her breasts, Marian felt beautiful, wanton, desirable. He made her feel so, as fevered lips travelled up to claim hers again, his arousal firm against her skirt. She pressed against him, and Robin moaned into the kiss, settling her back against the bole of the tree. His hand disappeared beneath her raised skirt. Marian knew what was coming; her thighs parted, welcoming. He handled her as skilfully as he did his bow, his arm flexing beneath her fingertips. Marian panted against his neck, the intimacy of his touch drawing her up, up, sensation coiling, and again he was kissing her, deeply, while at the same time….

….. but then, his movements slowed, and ceased, and he was cupping her gently, his thumb circling until that too was withdrawn, leaving her….not bereft, not for long, his lips moving on hers. He dropped to his knees, settling himself into position, and Marian felt the scruff of his beard tickling her inner thighs, just before the intimate caress of his tongue began. It had her clinging to the trunk for support, the cloak that was bunched behind her the only thing preventing the bark from digging into her back. There was a knot in the trunk, awkwardly placed, she could feel it beneath her shoulder blade. Or would have done, if what Robin was doing hadn’t been pinpointing every sensation in her body, driving all thought from her head, and drawing sounds from her that echoed in the glade in soft counterpoint to the call of the owl in the branches overhead.

Marian knew what was coming, or thought she did, as sensations built in her again. She pressed her head back, the bark digging into her scalp, her body cleaving to Robin's mouth as he widened her stance further. His sensuous onslaught continued…she thought she knew, as he pressed a finger inside her, while his tongue flicked and…. _oh Robin_ …..

….but then he withdrew, climbing up her body, his hands tangling in her hair and his lips hot and hungry on hers, while inside she ached in a way that consumed and unsettled her. She wanted him, desperately, and if words wouldn’t do it….

Marian tugged his shirt free, and worked his laces loose until there was room to slide her hand down and take hold of him. She knew then that her wait was over. Robin shoved his breeches down and she was able to move her hand more freely, stroking him, while he braced one hand against the tree and, with his other, undid the clasp at her neck. The cloak sighed from her shoulders. Robin pushed her sleeves down, his breathing ragged, baring her fully from the waist up. Marian felt suddenly free, uninhibited, wishing the cloak of darkness gone as well so that she could _see_ the desire she knew would be burning in Robin’s eyes.

“Marian – this isn’t how I imagined…..” She could hear it; his voice was laden with it.

She almost couldn’t speak.

“Robin…I swear, if you make me wait one single….moment…more….”

He stayed her hand on him then, long enough for them to exchange places. Robin lowered himself, shoving her discarded cloak behind him, leaning back against the ancient, slanting bole.

“On me,” he said huskily, drawing her down. “It’ll be….you’ll see…”

Marian lowered herself, pushing her skirt aside. She held her breath; she couldn’t speak as his fingers delved, teasing her open. Robin held her hips and she moaned, feeling him right _there_. And then he was entering her and Marian cried out, not from pain, but from the unfamiliar _fullness_ of it….although Robin mistook the cause, and immediately froze.

“You’re hurt?” he whispered.

“No.” Marian reassured him.

She reached out, caressing his face, taking in these new sensations. Her fingertips grazed his beard; she wished again she could see his eyes. Marian knew, now, why Robin had made her wait. By this time, she was so ready to receive him that there was no pain, only the deepest, most instinctive need to have him move inside her.

But astride him, she felt awkward, unsure of herself.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered.

“Just do whatever feels right,” Robin murmured.

His hands, and his voice, they steadied her. She followed his advice, exploring different sensations. Strong, tender hands stroked her thighs; his caresses flowed like flame across her body and her breasts. _Robin, my Robin._ Embedded between her legs. Emotions roiled in her, so intense that she didn’t know what to do with them. _My beloved, king of my heart, my all._ Having him like this – to know that this man she had loved for so long, and so desperately, was now _hers_. If he felt for her even half the love which with every kiss, and every caress, she strove to give voice….

…and when it was all becoming too much Robin sensed this; he brought her back. He sat upright, drawing her in close so that they could pause, arms wrapped around each other, their loins rocking together. The intimacy of this, joined as lovers while they each rained soft kisses upon the other, as their whispers of love mingled like the waters of two rivers commingling…and all the while the awareness of him buried between her thighs, summoning her desire up again from every tributary of her being, like the rising level of those same rivers until she was ready, again, for more. And then Robin leaned back, guiding her movements, until she found her rhythm. Marian pressed a hand against his chest as she rode him; he clasped it, linking their fingers and, leaning forward, Marian laid her other hand against the tree for support.

It was this, finally, that was too much for Robin. With a low moan, his lips found one of her breasts. Keeping one hand firm on her body, with his other he reached for the cloak. He tugged it urgently from behind him, rolling them over onto it so that now she lay beneath him.

Then, he began to move. Thrusting slowly, at first.

“Alright?” he asked tenderly, propped above her.

Marian could only nod.

Nothing had prepared her for this. She stroked Robin’s back beneath his shirt. Smooth muscle, strong and supple, moving beneath her hands while his body surged into her, joining them. Marian felt her own body demanding the release which, as he stroked her long and deep, she felt herself rushing towards. The need for him consumed her as he gave and gave, driving them both towards fulfilment. When it came, it was with such force that it shook Marian, the pleasure intensifying as it drew Robin with her. Only moments later he locked into her, a low groan escaping him as he spilled into her depths.

And when they were done, clinging together panting and spent, a sheen of sweat on their bodies, Robin framed her face with his hands and even in the dark Marian could picture his tender smile. Because she knew him. And because she, too, was suffused with joy, unable to suppress it. Nor did she want to. Tears wet her cheeks. How often in this world does life lay out, with open hand, the very thing the heart most desires? And what could she do but grasp it, and hold onto it as fiercely and as jealously as she could, because this gladness was such a rare and precious thing?

Robin pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose, then nuzzled her gently. Marian clasped her hands behind his neck, filled with an ineffable lightness.

“Where had you gone just then?’ he asked softly.

“Only here. Ever here.” She stroked his beard. He dipped to kiss her again, his lips gently grazing hers. “You know, if I’d known it would be like…this….when you hid in my bed in the castle that time, I would never have let you leave it.”

Robin chuckled. He rolled to his side, tugging free some of the folds of the cloak, arranging it over them.

“Oh yes you would have,” he said. “It’s one of the things I love about you. So fierce, always doing whatever needs to be done.”

Marian was silent.

“What is it?” prompted Robin.

“Say that again,” she whispered.

“What?”

“You know.”

“What, that you’re fierce?” he teased. Then he grew serious. “That when I see you fight for what you believe in, when I see you defending the weak, that I want you by my side….to fight, for now, but when all this is done - if we’re ever free, to live normal lives, to raise a family….”

“Shhh…..” Marian placed a finger on his lips. “I want that too. But we can’t ask it, not yet. We only have now. We have work to do first.”

Robin took hold of her hand, pressing a kiss to her fingertips.

“You see what I mean,” he murmured, clasping her more tightly to him.

Time passed - she didn’t know how much - and Marian didn’t want to leave. They’d created their own world here, one in which they didn’t have to be what others expected of them – or what they expected of themselves. They were free to be together. Robin, too, seemed content. But after a time, Marian started to notice things which in the throes of passion could easily be ignored: the ground was uncomfortable beneath them, and despite the cloak covering them and Robin’s embrace, she was beginning to cool down.

Sensing this, Robin rose first. Outside the oak’s great circumference there was moonlight enough now, between bouts of cloud, for gathering sticks and dried bark; Marian restored her clothing and went to help. Robin disappeared, returning shortly afterwards with a bunch of dried pine needles wrapped in his jerkin. He set to work with flint and fire-steel.

A short while later they were seated in the clearing, firelight flickering on their faces. Nestled between Robin’s legs, Marian leaned back, gazing up at the branches interlocking above their heads.

“I wish we could have spent tonight somewhere else, somewhere more….” Robin began.

“Shhh,” Marian silenced him. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

“What, with no candlelight….”

“We have fire-light….”

“And no bed….”

“We needed none.”

“And no roof over our heads.”

“Look at this, though….the way the canopy shelters us, the way the branches twist and twine, it forms a roof more perfect than anything we could ever produce.”

Robin was silent a few moments, his fingers stroking idly across her collarbone.

“That’s true,” he said pensively. “I remember a cathedral on the continent, done in the new style…it took years to complete, worked on by hundreds of craftsmen, wonderful to look at…people flocked to it, marvelled how the ceiling could look so much like woven branches. Except it wasn’t. It was nothing like this. And I _knew_.”

“Because we have the real thing,” Marian murmured.

“Yes. Yes, we do have the real thing.” He stroked her hair, softly.

The meaning behind his words warmed Marian’s heart. She nestled back further, soaking everything in: the fickle warmth from their small fire, the homely glow it cast around the clearing, the firmness of Robin’s thigh where she rested against it. They had to be getting back soon, but Marian wanted to carry this memory – of all they’d said and done here, of all it meant to her – she would carry this with her, a delicious secret, a talisman, to hold against the dark.

_Because you are my light, my beloved Lord of Locksley. You are my light, and my joy, in a dark and terrible world._ Words that had fallen from her lips while they were joined; the truth of them still overflowed her heart. 

“We’re betrothed again, Robin….” she said joyously then, unable to contain it.

“We are indeed, my love,” he replied, with an answering smile in his voice. “We are betrothed again.”  
  
  



	13. Pawns

Guy had no idea of the time.

It was daylight, he knew that much, from the crack of light showing beneath the door. But the shutters blocked the rest of it, just as he’d hoped the quantity of wine he’d sloshed down the night before would have done for his thoughts. But he’d slept poorly, and thus late.

Dragging himself upright, Guy’s feet met the floor. He sat there, hunched, suspecting nothing would be gained by sudden movement. It was usefully distracting, for a minute, to sit and focus on his physical state; it removed the need to think of anything more pressing.

Like the fact that today was his wedding day. As much a miserable joke as everything else about his life. Yet arranged marriages happened all the time; why should this bother him more than the next man? As Vaisey had pointed out, his bride came with a substantial dowry, and a respected name; she was attractive, and – given the circumstances - as willing as she could be. Meg had shown herself compassionate and kind and, during what little time they’d spent together, he’d enjoyed her quick wit, her humour, and – strangely enough - her refusal to be cowed by him. So, what more could he possibly want?

The answer to that, of course, was Marian.

And he despised himself for it. Last night, she’d come barrelling out of nowhere when she thought he’d overpowered Hood. But then, the bastard had chucked his own blade at Guy’s feet. So, who had Marian been trying to protect, him or Locksley? And why did it matter? She was gone. She was with _Hood_. Guy dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. Images of them together had plagued him the night before. When he’d finally fallen asleep, in his dreams it had no longer been the outlaw but he himself around whom her soft white thighs had been wrapped. Guy didn’t know which was worse.

With a growl of frustration, he surged to his feet, kicking out at the stand beside the bed. The wine jug toppled, smashing, and Guy trod uncaring through the shards to the door to be met, when he hauled it open, by an infuriatingly impassive Thornton who was on the threshold just about to knock.

“What do you want?” he snapped.

“Sir Guy, I thought you might like to know, a carriage has just pulled up outside.”

Guy groaned; Vaisey was the last thing he needed to deal with right now.

“Tell him I’ll be…”

“Not _him_ , sir. It’s your affianced, the Lady Meg.”

Guy stared at him, waiting for his thoughts to coalesce.

“What’s she doing here? What time is it?”

Anxiety flooded him; had he been so caught up in his misery that he’d missed the appointed time? If so, he hadn’t intended it; he wouldn’t humiliate Meg in such a way.

“Plenty of time yet, Sir Guy,” soothed Thornton. “I planned to inquire if you hadn’t arisen by midday; the ceremony isn’t until four.”

“Of course,” mumbled Guy. Wine and lack of sleep had derailed his common sense.

Fortunately, Thornton had enough for them both. Guy allowed himself, as Thornton called over his shoulder for a fresh pitcher of water and a broom, to be ushered back into the room. He winced at the severity of the daylight which entered as his steward opened the shutters, and latched them back into place. This done, Thornton turned to face him.

“Sir Guy, before we’re interrupted, may I say something of a personal nature?”

Too listless to object, Guy waved a hand for him to continue.

“You may not remember, but on the occasion of your…ahem…other matrimonial day…you spoke to me about your desire to be understood? Well I can’t say for sure what the young lady wants, but it would be my guess that she is here now seeking exactly that – to gain some understanding of you.” 

Thornton paused. Guy went to look out the window, as much to have something to lean on as anything else. He saw Meg alight from the carriage, and instruct her servant to remain by its step.

“What I wanted to say, sir,” Thornton continued, “is that if you let it, this understanding can be a seed. Plant it, and over time, from it you might see more grow than you expect.”

Two servants entered then, interrupting them, swiftly tidying the debris and leaving fresh water for him to wash. Thornton supervised, and when they were done he followed them out. Guy began cleaning himself down, hoping the shock of the cold water would help reinvigorate the wits he’d done his best to dull with wine.

A short while later, tying the laces of a fresh shirt, he went down to meet Meg. She was standing by the hearth, gazing up at the Gisborne coat-of-arms.

“You must be proud of this,” she said, turning at the sound of his step. “It’s almost the only decoration you have in here.”

“I don’t need anything else,” Guy replied.

Meg turned, looking around the hall, and suddenly Guy was conscious of its spartan furnishings, of the lack of tapestries, of its utilitarian rugs.

“Do such things matter to you?” he asked.

“Not for the sake of having things themselves, no. But to be surrounded by beauty…well, that’s different. I don’t mean expensive things, maybe just a jug here or there. I saw some primroses by the road….or perhaps an arrangement, a bunch of dried herbs….”

“The forest is out there,” Guy said wryly. “Couldn’t we keep it that way?”

Meg looked a little flustered.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t meaning to criticise, or to take over.”

“It doesn’t matter. Do whatever you want.” Guy sighed, waving her to one of the seats as a servant entered with a tray. “So, if it wasn’t to decorate my house, why did you come?”

Meg, who was usually so forthright, didn’t answer immediately; she sat fidgeting with the gloves in her lap. Guy curbed his impatience, leaning his head against the back of the chair and closing his eyes.

“I want to change the venue,” Meg blurted.

Guy opened his eyes.

“Why? Isn’t it a bit late for that?”

Meg shrugged; she had pouches beneath her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept well either.

“They’ve begun decorating our village church, but….it doesn’t need to be a church. That’s what I came to say. I don’t need fuss. It’s only flowers and arches, things easy enough to move. I thought we could….”

“You heard about the last time,” he said baldly.

Meg nodded.

“You thought I might not show.”

She looked miserable.

“Can you blame me? You’ve spent most of the week telling me we shouldn’t do this, that I should disappear somewhere. And you obviously didn’t sleep well.”

Guy rubbed his face; an understatement, if ever there was one. He decided to give it one more try.

“Meg, you do realise that nothing about this marriage will be normal? We’ll be wed today, and in a few weeks, a month at most, I’ll be gone. And who knows what will happen then? Nothing good, I can guarantee it.”

“Your…meeting. Did it go well?”

He’d known he wouldn’t be able to avoid this question. Guy related the past evening’s events.

“So, you attacked him?” Meg pursed her lips in annoyance, her usual spirit returning.

“He wouldn’t give me the pact,” Guy repeated.

“Well that was never part of the plan. You should have let me come.”

“I suppose you think you could have done better?”

“Yes, I probably could have,” she snapped. “It sounds like Allan was as much use as tits on a boar.”

Mildly shocked, Guy’s lips twitched.

“Where did you pick up such talk?”

“Sorry,” Meg muttered. “Off one of my suitors.”

“Refined, was he?”

“You’ve no idea.”

They exchanged a smile.

“Meg,” he said then, leaning forward, “I wouldn’t have left you there, waiting. Trust me. We signed a betrothal contract.”

She gave a small nod.

“I still would like to marry…somewhere else.”

“It’s too late. Your father wouldn’t be pleased.”

“I’m getting married – that should be enough to please him,” she said tartly.

“Listen, whatever you’ve heard…”

“…you’ll be thinking of her,” Meg blurted. “If we’re wed in a church. And people will…”

“What, snigger? Gossip? Well, it’s what people do,” Guy said bitterly. “Let them, I’ve heard it all before.”

“So, it doesn’t worry you? You don’t want….”

“Let it be,” he snapped. Then, more reasonably: “Listen Meg, we are pawns to the sheriff’s whims, and we’ll have to make the best of it. I’ll be there this afternoon, church, field, wherever….”

On impulse, he held out his hands; none of this was her fault, and she’d come here hoping to make things easier for him. Meg slipped hers into them; they were small, and warm.

As they were that afternoon, too, when she came and stood by him before the altar.

_At least I know what to do, this time.  
_

Just one more thing, between him and Marian, which had been _wrong_. He thought, now that it was too late, that maybe Meg had been right. As he stood waiting for her to appear, he couldn’t get the images of that day, of his failed wedding, out of his head. He found himself remembering the vision Marian had been, coming through the door of Locksley church, so beautiful it had set his head swimming, his heart so full of hope, his palms damp from nerves, and a thrum-beat of desire beating deep within his blood, a pulse in the background that – when the time was right - would be free to surge up and obliterate everything else that was wrong with his life.

Only there’d never been that chance. Guy lifted a hand, fingering the scar in his cheek. When had his life become so twisted, that he stood here, his thoughts straying to a woman who could never be his, while the one who now stepped into view – framed within the church door – had been more genuine with him in one week than Marian had been in all the time he’d known her?

He watched Meg walk towards him, and felt Vaisey’s gaze on him, scrutinising him as he did his caged birds after his experiments in deprivation. This, and the press of memory, flustered him; Guy began to put the ring on the wrong hand. But before anyone could notice Meg, by sleight of hand, made it seem as though he wished only to hold that one in a tender-seeming gesture, and meanwhile helped him slide the ring onto the correct finger.

When had it become so twisted that, throughout ceremony and wedding feast, apart from their first chaste kiss at the altar, they’d sat side by side like the strangers they were, Guy unable to shake the resentment he felt at being forced into this marriage? He behaved civilly to Lord Bennett and the guests, but when it was all over and done with, and they rode in the carriage back to Locksley, Guy was thankful that Meg fell asleep against his shoulder, relieving him of the need to speak.

She woke when they reached Locksley. He helped her down, and Thornton – who had travelled ahead – waited on the festooned threshold to welcome Meg into her new home, before discreetly disappearing. A small table of wine and sweet cakes had been laid for them in the hall. _As if we haven’t eaten enough already_ , Guy thought sourly. But the wine…he tossed back a goblet, before he noticed Meg watching him.

She looked weary, uncertain. She also looked beautiful. Her gown was a subtle shade of blue, which highlighted her eyes. Her cheeks were a little flushed, and the torchlight cast a soft glow on the creamy skin above her bodice. The flowers twined through her hair had started to dislodge during the carriage ride; pressing against his shoulder had caused one to droop onto her cheek. He lifted it, and carefully tucked it back into place. Lips slightly parted, Meg caught the lower one between her teeth, watching him carefully.

She was nervous, Guy realised, like a filly about to bolt. For all their conversations, they hadn’t spoken about what would happen tonight. He slid a hand beneath her hair, placing a soft kiss on her forehead.

“What do we do now?” she asked him, her voice mostly steady.

“I’ll not bed someone nervous, or unwilling,” he said. “Go on up. I’ll sleep downstairs for now.”

She complied, though with a hand on the banister she turned to him and said, quite clearly and quietly, “I’m not unwilling,” before taking the stairs.

Which threw Guy into a state of indecision, one that could only be resolved at the bottom of a wine jug.

It felt like borrowed clothes, to be taking on the role of husband to such an innocent. A role he wasn’t up for yet; not this evening, at any rate. He sat for another half an hour, his head resting on the chair-back, willing his thoughts to go numb. At last he rose and, stumbling along to the lower bedchamber, he stripped naked and crawled into bed.

                                          ______________________________________________

Meg closed the bedroom door behind her, and went to sit on the bed. She noticed her hands trembling, and shoved them beneath her thighs. Well, she’d not denied being nervous.

_What was I thinking? “I’m not unwilling.”_ Her face heated at the thought.

Guy had given her a reprieve, one she supposed should have filled her with relief. It would have, for many in her situation. Instead, now she had to sit here - waiting, wondering, if he was going to take up her invitation. _Fool_.

The room wasn’t large, halved by the curtained alcove which, when she looked, contained small chests and a few personal belongings - none of which spoke much about the man she’d just wed. She lifted the lid of one chest, glanced at the valuables it contained, and then closed it again.

Life could be so _untidy_ , she thought. It never went the way it should, could never be mapped out in precise and tidy lines. Her own hadn’t – not since her mother’s death, not since her father’s determination to see her wed. Look where _that_ had led her. And nor had Guy’s. The woman he’d been set to marry a year ago – one he’d adored – had come into this very room to fleece him of this wealth. As if that wasn’t enough, she’d had contempt enough to publicly and, very painfully, leave him at the altar.

That had troubled him today. If only she’d heard of it earlier, allowing time to change the venue. Perhaps it would have helped, she didn’t know. But when Guy had been flustered during the ceremony, something had welled up in her, both tenderness and a determination, one that even his aloofness during the feast didn’t deter.

Pawns, Guy had said.

Powerless, told to move here, move there, sacrifices to whim or necessity – _and how must that make him feel? Being bullied into marriage is a woman’s lot, but for a man like him?_ Well, they would see. Given the right position, a pawn could bring down a knight, or even a king. Surely a sheriff, then. Their first gambit had failed, no doubt one reason Guy had been so withdrawn. But it could be fixed; they could try again.

And what would she make of this situation? She had the power to make that choice. She’d been forced to wed a man who had demons to shed – only an idiot would suppose otherwise. But he didn’t frighten her. He’d wiped away her tears, in the dungeon; he’d sat beside her in a country lane, confessing treason, simply to save her from being caught up in it.

In the past he had loved, and been scorned.

Given time, Meg hoped she could help him move past that. But for that to happen, perhaps she needed to start this marriage how she meant to go on. After all, she was here; the Lady Marian wasn’t.

The candles were beginning to stutter, the pool of light by the bed diminishing. Meg sat on the brocaded coverlet, fingering the laces of her gown. Despite her invitation, he wasn’t coming. Meg hadn’t known what to expect of tonight, but certainly it hadn’t been this – sitting alone, in the silence and the dark, unlacing her own finery while wondering if downstairs, the man with whom she’d exchanged pledges lay tormenting himself with thoughts of another, unattainable woman.

And if that was how it was going to be, then their union didn’t stand a chance. 

Meg took her time. She removed her wedding gown, and unpacked her few belongings, finding a place for them. She unbound her hair, draping the string of flowers over the back of a chair. She began to brush it out until – recognising reluctance in her delays - she put the hairbrush aside and, clad only in her shift, she went downstairs.

The house was abed. She hoped Guy would be asleep; she just wanted to be there, a presence to wake up beside. There was moonlight enough that she didn’t knock any furniture in the hall. Meg hesitated, wondering which room, but it wasn’t difficult to find; she tripped over his leathers on the way to the bed.

Meg stood there a few moments, listening to his breathing. It was quiet, and even. Then, before she lost her nerve, she lifted the sheet and climbed in.

Guy stirred, and a firm arm came around her. Meg felt a flutter of apprehension, but he didn’t wake. She tucked herself back against him and tried to relax, but it took her a very long time to go to sleep.

                                         __________________________________________________

Guy woke twice in the night, the first for the privy.

The second, it was to find a warm body curled up against him. Meg wore only a shift. Guy let himself absorb the contentment of her being there; of sharing her warmth, and the comfort of lying abed with someone.

He tried to go back to sleep, but having Meg there was distracting. Even half-asleep, he couldn’t shake the awareness of his arm, brushing the underside of her breasts. Idly, Guy began to move his thumb across their curves, wondering if she would welcome his caresses. It woke Meg because she stirred in his arms, pressing back into his groin.

Guy felt himself begin to stiffen.

Fully awake now, he let his hand roam more freely, the shape of her breasts filling his hand, first one and then the other, stroking, teasing her nipples. A soft moan was his reward. Guy’s lips grazed her hair. He slid his hand between her legs, cupping her intimately. And then, with little more ado, he dipped a finger inside. Guy groaned his need as he felt the promise there. But Meg gasped. She was restless in his arms and, afraid that he had somehow hurt or shocked her, Guy abruptly withdrew. 

_Too much. Too fast._

But after a few moments, as she lay panting quietly, he felt her grasp his hand, guiding it back to where it had been. Guy needed no more invitation. He knew how to give pleasure, and so he did, working her intently until she arched back against him, shuddering through a completion that spurred on his own lust.

Before she had the chance to recover, Guy removed her shift. He began kissing the side of her face, nuzzling her neck, murmuring into her ear…

“Relax…it will help. Just relax.”

Then he placed one hand on her back, positioning her at an angle to him. His hand moved down, stroking where he intended to bury himself, parting the petals of her sex.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmured, but Meg seemed as lost in what they were doing as he was.

He eased himself in a little and then paused, feeling her tense beneath his hands. He’d not bedded an innocent before…. Guy rocked a little further, letting her accommodate him. Was it better just to have done, to thrust himself in? His hands caressed her back…he reached around, letting his touch make her ready for more; gauging her responses he withdrew a little and then, with a grunt of satisfaction, he entered her.

A quiet whimper of discomfort…

….and immediately, Guy went still.

“Meg.” His voice was raw, penitent. Harsh breaths, loud in the smothering dark. “We shouldn’t have done this.”

He started to withdraw.

“Wait,” Meg gasped. “It’s just….it’s just…I need a moment, to get used to it.”

Carefully, Guy drew her back to lie against him, stroking her belly, her breasts, her neck, burying a hand in her hair….this same hand then drifted to her face, and with his knuckle he felt a wetness on her cheeks. He moaned then… _sweet Meg_ , he whispered….and began to pull out, but she made a small sound and, reaching down, she rested one hand on the rear of his thigh, holding him in place. At the same time, she moved on him a little.

And her sweet assent meant Guy could no longer deny himself.

Pace measured, he began thrusting. Slow, shallow at first, and then deeper. Faster. He let himself go. _More_. More than he intended. At one point, he did ease right out, but only long enough to kneel and hoist her up with one arm about her waist.

“Lift up for me,” he said, urgently.

And as Meg rested her elbows on the bed, Guy held her hips to steady her and then sunk back in, chasing release. It didn’t take long.

Nor did it take him long to fall asleep afterwards, wrapped around Meg.

Dim light woke him, and the sound of servants moving about the house, closer at hand in this downstairs room. He lay a few moments, his face against Meg’s hair, sensing there was something _wrong_ about this, something that would come to him, and sure enough it did, creeping into his thoughts as insidiously as daylight seeped through the cracks in the shutters.

He’d bedded Meg. Not gently enough. Nor with words of tenderness, as she must surely have wished. And worse – even worse. Guy peeled himself away from her, wishing the night’s work could be undone. She looked so innocent, her hair tousled and tumbled. Her first time last night, and yet he’d used her, rutting her like a common whore.

Guy crept out of the bed; he didn’t want to wake her. Fumbling about for his clothes, dislodging the sheets he spied the evidence of their coupling; appalled, shame washed through him. Meg was the first woman he’d been with whose virtue had been intact. Yet somehow, he’d managed to ruin this also, sundering it without due care as he satisfied his urges.

Another deed, in a catalogue beyond count, of deeds he couldn’t undo.

Ashamed, Guy dragged on his leathers and stumbled out of the room, his jacket hanging open, boots in one hand. He didn’t bother to wash; he needed to get away. Outside, sunlight tipped the nearest trees; spring promised a mild day. One he would spend longer than usual closeted with the sheriff, who would no doubt have plenty of snide innuendo to make about the marital bed. None of which he would be able to refute.

_I deserve Vaisey_ , he thought bitterly, leading his mount out of the stables. _I deserve it all_.

He swung up into the saddle and kicked the horse forward, heading for Nottingham, as fast as he could go.  
  
  



	14. Paths

The morning chill woke Meg; she was curled up in a ball, naked beneath the covers. It was still very early, she could tell. Where was Guy? She’d hoped to waken alongside him, the same way they’d gone to sleep. It was that, perhaps naively, which had prompted her to come into his bed last night. The rest of it had been.... unexpected.

Nothing at all, in fact, like what she’d been led to expect. Confusing, stimulating, a mix of pleasure and some discomfort….not as much as she’d feared it would be. There had been moments in which she’d felt tenderness flow from him, like something long suppressed finding an outlet. _Sweet Meg_. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her, she knew that. His caresses had been so…. _intimate_ …the sensations he aroused so intense, that by the time Guy had joined himself to her she’d been prepared to give herself over to the whole experience, trusting wherever it led.

She’d been a little surprised by that, by where it had led. Perhaps, she mused, gently mocking herself, if you didn’t want to be devoured, then best not to wander into the wolf’s den. _Is it always like that?_ she wondered. Meg presumed not. But maybe, the next time…

….the next time?

Her eyes flashed open. _He’s not here_. Guy’s leathers were gone; he’d clearly intended to be dressed and away before she woke up. Meg sat up, rummaging amongst the bedclothes for her shift, which she slipped back on. She hauled the covers round her shoulders and sat, hugging her knees, suddenly assailed by doubts. After the intimacies they’d shared, their first morning together as husband and wife, yet he hadn’t bothered to stay until she woke? What was so pressing that it needed his attention, today of all days?

Or, had something else driven him away, something she’d done? Had he found her too wanton, or…..too unappealing.…or…or…

Meg swiped tears away. It was no time to let emotions get the better of her.

She wished she knew what to do next. The servants were up, she could hear them moving about. They would have no reason to suspect the master and lady of the house had slept downstairs; the thought that someone might come into the room and see her sitting there, alone, amidst stained and rumpled sheets, propelled Meg from the bed. She went to the washstand and cleaned up; _that_ she had expected. Her married friends had warned her of it. 

_What now?_

One thing at a time. She must make her way upstairs, hoping not to pass any of the servants. She must dress, break her fast; her maid was expected mid-morning, and Esther could help unpack her trunk. Beyond that, she had no plans for the day, no structure. She’d thought, perhaps, to spend some of it with Guy. To talk about what her role here might be, about details of managing the manor, and of helping to run the estate. 

But he didn’t return until evening. Moody, preoccupied, they barely spoke over dinner. Afterwards he took himself off to the downstairs room, leaving Meg in no doubt that her place, that night, was upstairs and alone. She was surprised he’d come home at all.

The next night, he didn’t. Nor did he the next. When he did return, the third night, he didn’t bother to join her for dinner, but shut himself away with his wine jug.

Meg, tired of his surly demeanour, told herself that she was glad.

But, a lie was a lie; she was miserable, and had been for days. Sometimes, she clung to those two small words he’d uttered, reading hope into them. _Sweet Meg._ And just as often, she felt a fool for doing so: a careless endearment, tossed her way in the heat of his passion. Silly to read anything into them. _Foolish girl._ Well, he’d told her that, often enough. Perhaps that was why he was avoiding her now.

Well, if that were the case, then she was about to do something foolish again.

                                              ————————————————————————————

“Isn’t that what grooms are for?” grumbled Allan.

“Just do it,” snapped Guy. “Last time they made a mess of it, knocked the bowl over while it was heating and wasted the whole batch.”

“What makes you think I’ll do any better?”

“Anyone as light-fingered as you won’t be that clumsy. Just do it, Allan. I’d do it myself, but the sheriff wants me.” 

Which meant that here he was, just now finding the time after all the day’s other duties had been done, to lather onto Guy’s injured mare some foul concoction he’d been sent to collect during the day. What was it the farrier had said? Turpentine, laurel oil, tallow, fox fat….and a few other things.

“Horse won’t care how it smells,” the farrier had told him.

“No, but some poor sod has to apply it.”

_Prophetic words, Allan._

And nothing else about this week was going as he’d expected. First, that debacle at Knighton. Allan wished he’d known some of it beforehand, but he’d been as surprised as Robin by Guy’s revelations. And as for asking for the pact back….well, if he’d known that, he’d have told Guy it’d be a waste of time. Robin would never part with it.

He’d have helped him, though; Robin had said as much. And if they were working together, Allan was pretty sure he wouldn’t have thrown Guy to the wolves. Although Robin could be a bit…strange ….where Guy was concerned. But no. This….it would change everything.

And if they did end up working together, Allan thought, he could find himself - in a roundabout way - back with the gang. Strange, it was, how things worked out.

First things first, though. He would have to convince Guy to try again, to set up another meeting with Robin. And that was never going to happen in his current mood. Allan had expected a quiet week; he hadn’t thought to see Guy around the castle much. But instead, he’d been there without fail the last couple of days; Allan could have sworn he’d slept here last night. He looked haggard, glowering more than usual, and had smelled of stale wine again that morning.

_Some wedding night….it must have been hell.  
_

Mind you, if this was Guy, he wondered how the new Lady Gisborne was faring. _Best not to ask. None of my business. Stay out of it._

Allan heard a horse clop into the stable-yard then, and he moved out of sight, around to the other side of the mare. He didn’t have time to douse the lantern, but the guards were too preoccupied to notice. One of their mounts was limping, and the older man had a bloodied face.

“I told you there was a guard dog,” came a voice Allan recognised – young Robert, they’d shared an ale a few days earlier.

“Yeah, but you didn’t tell me you’d shut the gate by the barn,” grumbled the older man.

“How was I to know you’d run that way? Our horses were out by the smithy.”

“Yeah, well….a right shambles, start to finish. See what you can do with her, while I go and find someone.”

“Robert, my friend.” Allan stepped out from the stall where Guy’s mare was held, once the older man was gone. “You’ve seen a spot of trouble….what happened? No uniform tonight?”

“No,” said young Robert. “Sheriff wanted this done on the quiet. I tell you, it was the weirdest robbery I’ve ever seen.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Well, keep this under your hat, but the sheriff told us to break into Woodvale’s manor, and to put something _back_. Can you believe that?”

“It does seem odd. To put what back?”

“Oi…you heard what the sheriff said, boy.” The older guard – Simon, Simmons, Alan wasn’t sure – had returned. “He said not to go blabbing about this.”

“But it’s Allan. Surely, Sir Guy’s man….”

“I said shut it. You need to learn, lad, that when the sheriff says to keep something quiet you ruddy well do it. Anything else and it’ll get you killed, faster than you can tumble from a horse.”

“Well it won’t be this one.” Allan had walked around the mare, and was inspecting her foreleg. “She’s not going anywhere for a while.”

“No,” Simmons said dejectedly – Allan had recalled the name. “I’ve not had her long either, she’s a beauty, cost me nine pound.”

“Well, I don’t know if it’ll help, but you can use some of this. The stuff stinks but hey, better on a nag than on one of us, right?”

Allan handed over the ointment. He’d hoped it might ingratiate him with Simmons, but quickly realised the gesture was wasted; he’d get nothing from either of them. Better to wait, catch young Robert on his own some time, and find out then what was going on.

He didn’t have enough of anything to take back to Guy. He’d been in that situation before, borne Guy’s wrath when he’d thought his information was no more use than a fart in the wind. Best to do some snooping around, and see what else he could find out.

The sheriff was up to something, for sure. And now that Guy was as much a victim of the sheriff as the rest of them, any information would be an advantage. It could be something Robin should know about too. Perhaps this would be the excuse he needed…..a way to get those two to meet up again.

But he wondered how much worse Guy’s mood would become when he suggested it. Not to mention that he’d just given away a batch of the ointment.

Well, he’d warned Guy not to expect great things there.

                                                  —————————————————————————————

Marian realised that, too often for it not to be noticed, she was smiling to herself as she went about her tasks.

Since Robin had proposed, since their coupling beneath the oak, a sense of euphoria had crept over her at the most unexpected times. But it had been briefly tarnished when, on that first morning, Robin had suggested that she visit Matilda.

“If we’re to be together, you need to get some….advice,” he’d said, as they walked back to camp.

“What do you mean?” She’d been puzzled, her thoughts as far away from practical considerations as the leaves on the boughs overhead.

“You know, herbs and things. We can’t have you falling for child. The forest’s no place to raise an infant.”

“Oh.” Relentlessly practical in most things, this hadn’t occurred to her. Yet. She was glad Robin had thought if it.

Matilda had said much the same.

“Send you, did he? He’s a good lad….he’ll do right by you.”

“We’re to wed,” Marian had explained, a little embarrassed at disclosing their union to an outsider. The memory of it was so fresh, the lingering tenderness making her feel different, more womanly.

Matilda had chortled at her blush.

“Dearie, don’t be worried talking to me about it. That’s what I’m here for. Far better to let me sort this out for you now – here, take this, I’ll just find…..ah, here it is….” Matilda took a pouch down, sprinkled some seeds into her hand. “Grind these, mix them with a cup of water each evening and that should do the trick.”

She slipped them into a pouch, and handed it over. Marian fiddled with the drawstring for a moment, absorbing what this meant. It startled her, when Matilda tapped her under the chin, making her look up.

“Don’t worry, luv, it won’t be forever. It might seem like it now, but one day you two will be free to have as many of the little blighters running around as you please.”

“Do you think so? I wonder sometimes, Matilda. We have so much work to do.”

“Then just keep doing what you’re doing. Kick that miserable maggot of a sheriff as often and as hard as you can, right where it hurts, while you and Robin make nice in the forest. Go singing and sated into the dark, that’s what I say.”

Marian caught herself smiling again, thinking of this conversation. Well, she didn’t know about singing, but as for the other….

She finished packing away the last of the contribution they’d taken from an unsuspecting traveller that morning - a noble from Coventry - and her eye fell on the bag of her father’s belongings. Allan had left it with them the night of the meeting. She hadn’t had the courage, the next day, to look through it straight away. Had eventually done so, through a haze of tears; Robin, when he’d noticed, had come and taken her hand. Since then something had been niggling at her; she didn’t know what. It was time to find out. Marian lifted the bag onto the bed, and began removing its items. Djaq came and stood beside her.

“What are you looking for?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Marian replied. “It’s just the other day, something bothered me about this….”

Soon she had everything laid out on the bed: not much to show for a life, Marian thought sadly, yet each item spoke volumes to her about the man her father had been. The ebony and pearl-inlaid backgammon set, over which they’d spent many an evening….his favourite cloak fastener, one her mother had given him….some important parchments, among them the record of her birth, and of her parents’ marriage…

“It’s not here,” she realised, trying to hide the welling of her tears. “His seal. That’s what’s missing.”

“That is odd,” Djaq agreed. “Perhaps he had it hidden away, somewhere the person gathering these things wouldn’t know to look?”

“You may be right. He had no safe, but perhaps he had it concealed. I’d like to be sure, though. I’d like to find it….there’s little enough else left of the estate.”

“You want to find what?” Robin asked, joining them.

He was silent, once Marian had explained.

“I know it’s dangerous, Robin…..” she began.

“It is, but I agree. We should try and retrieve it. It should be yours now.”

“We?” she asked softly.

Robin hesitated, but then he gave a brief nod. Marian could have embraced him, right there in front of Djaq; instead, she decided to give him a way out.

“There is another way, though.”

“What’s that?”

“If you meet with Guy again, perhaps he could look for us. He’s in the castle all the time, it would be easy enough for him to do it.”

“It’s a good idea,” put in Djaq.

“You are planning to meet with him again, aren’t you?” Marian asked.

When Robin made no reply, she grew suspicious.

“Think, Robin, what he’s just done,” she went on. “He’s come to you, and at great risk to himself confessed to treason. Admit it, that took courage. If the sheriff ever finds out what he’s done….”

“You forget, he asked for the pact. If those are his terms, then I’m not sure we even need him at all. We have his information now.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“He’s not getting the pact. It’s proof of treason, I’m not giving it up. So, if that’s his price…”

“Why? Because you think he’ll give it to the sheriff?”

“Marian, I don’t trust him. He says he wants insurance…well, what’s mine? If he is working for Vaisey, if all this is a ruse to get it back, then I’m left with no proof, nothing.”

“And what does Guy have?”

“My word. And our aid.”

“Well, you didn’t give it to him. You gave him neither.”

She watched Robin absorb this; Marian knew she had a point. The meeting could have ended very differently. Until the pact had been mentioned, they’d been close to an accord.

“Alright then,” Robin muttered. “I suppose we can meet.”

“Good – then tomorrow, when we make the drops, we can get a message to Allan?”

“No need. No messing about this time. I’m going to Locksley, on my own.”

“You can’t!” gasped Marian. “The guards…..”

“…won’t be anywhere near the newly-weds, and if I can’t slip past them into my own house, then there’d be something very wrong,” grinned Robin.

Reluctantly, Marian saw the logic of this. 

“Couldn’t I….”

“No. I’m going alone.”

And she had to be content with that, Marian supposed. Or at least, appear to be.

                                     ———————————————————————————————  


Fully clothed this time, Meg made her way downstairs on silent feet.

Candlelight flickered beneath the door; she stood there, listening, wondering if Guy was awake, or if he’d fallen asleep without extinguishing it. She heard a rustling noise; awake, then. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved, or not. But, summoning her nerve, Meg placed a hand on the door latch…and jumped, with a squeal of alarm, when a masculine hand closed over hers.

“Best not to disturb him,” a voice said, as she spun round. “Let me do that.”

“You!” She recognised the outlaw from the day he’d been trying to drown Guy, and from the dungeons. “What are you doing here?”

“We’ve some unfinished business.”

“Yes, he told me it was a disaster, the last time you met. So, if you’ve just come to goad him, it’s not a good time. He’s probably drunk,” Meg said bluntly.

“Why would you think…..”

The door wrenched open violently behind them; Guy’s hand shot out, gripping her free arm.

“Get your hands off her,” he snarled, tugging Meg into the room.

She stumbled against him; an arm came around her waist to steady her, but just as quickly was gone.

“Gisborne, I’m here to talk. That’s all. I’ll wait five minutes in the hall, if you’re willing to talk. After that, I’ll be gone, and we’ll have nothing further to say to each other.”

The outlaw strode away, leaving them alone.

“I suppose you want to hound me as well,” grumbled Guy.

“No,” said Meg. “Actually, I wanted you to come upstairs.”

Guy gazed at her, nonplussed.

“Just to sleep,” she hastened to add, “for now.”

A few more heartbeats of silence. Guy ran a hand through his hair, making it stick out at one side. She reached up, smoothing it down. Guy caught her hand, and held onto it.

“I don’t understand you,” he muttered.

“No, I suppose you don’t. Nor I you. But I think, if our paths don’t even cross, that we will never find a way to understand one another.”

Hesitant, Guy slid a hand beneath her hair; his thumb caressed her cheek. Meg leaned into his palm.

“Please,” she whispered. “For us.”

Guy’s response was to draw her against him; she relaxed, glad that she’d done this. He mumbled something she couldn’t quite hear; it might have been _forgive me_ , but she wasn’t sure.

But there were other things, too, which needed attention, one of them being an impatient outlaw waiting in the hall.

“He only gave you five minutes,” Meg reminded him, drawing back.

“Cocky, as always,” muttered Guy.

He released her and left the room. After a moment, Meg followed. This time, she was determined to hear what transpired between the outlaw and her husband. And given his last comment, and the amount of wine Guy had consumed, the omens for their meeting were not at all what she would call hopeful.  
  
  
  
  



	15. Negotiations

“We can’t talk here,” the outlaw said quietly, when Guy entered the hall. He nodded towards the closed front door.

“How did you get in?” he asked.

“Let’s just say the guards don’t know I’m here. Yet. So, where can we talk?”

“You came alone? Why? All I have to do is shout.”

Hood gazed at him calmly. Even this infuriated Guy, but he tamped down his annoyance, curious to hear the answer.

“Because I’ll know, by what you do in the next fifteen seconds, whether you’re serious about this or not. But I’m telling you, up front...no pact.”

“Fine. Keep it,” Guy said.

He relished the surprise on Hood’s face; it was rare enough to feel that he held the upper hand. But if he needed the outlaw’s aid, then perhaps this would help convince Hood that the reverse was also true. Allan’s news a couple of days earlier had given him the means. After dwelling on it since then, Guy thought he could make a reasonable guess as to what Vaisey’s latest scheme might be. 

“Where can we talk?” Hood repeated, urgently.

“In here,” said Guy.

He motioned Hood to the back room, one where he’d spent many evenings in the company of his guards, drinking in silence. Meg came up beside him.

“I want to listen. Please. It can’t do any harm.”

His first instinct was to rebuff, but Meg’s message had been clear: he’d done enough of that, this week. He stood aside, and let her precede him into the room. Hood already had a lamp lit, fetching a taper from the kitchen; it rankled Guy, that he should make himself so at home. _As if it still is his home, and I’m just borrowing it_. He closed the door, ensuring they would have privacy.

“So, what’s changed?” the outlaw began.

Pulling out a chair he sat backwards on it, folding his arms across the top. Guy sat at the other end of the table, Meg slipping into the chair next to him.

“You tell me. Why are you here?” Guy countered.

“Why do you think? I want to protect the king, you want to save your hide, the best way we can do that is to join forces. That was your plan, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. But what’s changed, if you weren’t planning on giving me the pact?”

Hood shrugged.

“I’m here, aren’t I? So how about you tell me why it’s suddenly of no interest to you.”

“Because I think Vaisey is replacing it.”

“How will that help him?” The outlaw frowned, puzzled. “It wouldn’t make the one I hold any less treasonous.”

“It would if he had new names put on it, and got it to the king first. He doesn’t know you’ll be anywhere near the Holy Land.”

“Tell me,” Hood said quietly, leaning forward and resting his chin on his hands.

Guy related what Allan had told him, the conversation he’d overheard.

“Since then, he’s asked around….”

“….as only Allan can…” A reluctant grin, as Guy gave a small nod of agreement.

“…and he found out it was Woodvale’s seal that had been stolen. Not only that, but when Loughborough had been leaving the Council meeting, he was robbed on the road home. He came back, demanding something be done. Said they’d taken his seal ring, and that he’d stay until it was recovered. The sheriff told him he was welcome to stay, but if he did, he could lead the hunt himself. Suddenly Loughborough wasn’t so keen. He took himself off that afternoon.”

The outlaw tapped his fingers on the chairback.

“It makes sense, now,” he muttered.

“What does?”

“Marian said Edward’s seal has gone missing. It wasn’t among the effects Allan had left for her.”

_Left on my instructions_ , thought Guy. But he let it pass.

“He’s returning the others, to avoid suspicion,” Guy went on. “I was there when he sent a guard after Loughborough with the ring, and word that the culprits had been caught, although I hadn’t seen anyone brought in.”

“But there’s no need to return a dead man’s,” Hood observed. “And it would be just like Vaisey, taking revenge on Marian by having her father declared a traitor. The king would have no idea Edward died a hero.”

“A word you bandy about, Locksley?”

“Only when it’s earned,” snapped the outlaw.

“So, what now?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? We need to get it off him. It’ll have your name on it, somehow. You’d at least want to know that, wouldn’t you?”

“Not happening,” grunted Guy. “If something like that goes missing, Vaisey won’t stop until he finds out who’s responsible. There’d be reprisals. Allan would be the first one he’d suspect.”

The outlaw cocked his head.

“Growing a conscience, Gisborne?”

Guy scowled, but his own reply was forestalled. Meg leaned forward, clasping her hands on the table.

“You should listen to him, if you want to work together,” she said sternly. “Instead of trying to provoke him. Get Guy to do that, and your alliance will be over before it’s begun. Vaisey will know that he has a spy in the castle.”

Guy bit back a rebuke; he didn’t need anyone fighting his battles for him. True though this was, however, he couldn’t contain a flicker of satisfaction that this time, for once Hood was outnumbered. If only by one.

He was interested, too, in the outlaw’s reaction.

“Lady Gisborne.” Locksley dipped his head towards her. “You don’t approve of me?”

“Not very much, no. But feel free to change my mind.”

“And how can I do that?”

“By being civil to someone who’s trying to help you….”

“….who needs my help, you mean….”

“….and by not interrupting….”

The outlaw chuckled.

“You’ve a sharp one here, Gisborne. No wonder she’s made you sleep downstairs.”

“Locksley,” Guy growled, “leave it.”

“Touched a sore point, have I?”

Guy shoved his chair back, annoyed beyond measure, but Meg laid a hand on his arm. He sat back down.

“Oh, for God’s sake, grow up,” she muttered at the outlaw.

Hood chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip.

“She’s right,” he said, after a moment. “I didn’t come here to antagonise. Old habits. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Shall we get back to business?”

Nonplussed, Guy stared at Robin. The last thing he’d have expected was an apology from him.

“If we can’t steal the pact,” the outlaw went on, “then what can we do? Shouldn’t you at least try and get a look at it, to see if we’re right? To see if your name is on it?”

“I think we can assume it will be.”

“So what then, we just let Vaisey get away with this? Carry a document to the king that implicates decent, honourable men?”

“You have the original. Just make sure you get to the king first, and see that he knows the truth.”

Robin considered this.

“I think we need to see it, at least,” he said finally. “Otherwise this is all conjecture. So, will you do it? Or do I need to?”

“You realise that if Guy is caught….” murmured Meg.

The outlaw glanced her way.

“Yes. I do know,” he said gently.

“So, this is what Marian used to do for you?” Guy asked bitterly.

“Will you do it?” Hood ignored the question.

“Alright,” said Guy, a few moments later. “I will.”

“Good. Then we’re done. Send Allan if you need to get word to me about anything.” Robin rose and then paused, leaning his palms on the table. “My lady, a pleasure. And Gisborne….thank you.”

He slipped out then, through the kitchens. Guy sat brooding, silent, churning over the implications of all that had just happened. Then Meg laid a hand on his arm.

“Will you come up now?” she asked.

Guy scrubbed a hand over his face. He was weary, drained by the twists and turns his life was taking. Yes, Hood had come to him of his own volition, and yes, they now had an alliance of sorts. But Guy felt little triumph. He could see where this might lead. If he did try and outwit Vaisey, and was caught doing so, it wouldn’t matter what plots might be hatched in the Holy Land; he wouldn’t live long enough to see them.

Silently, he accepted Meg’s invitation; after his recent treatment of her, it was more than he deserved.

                                              ————————————————————————————

The scribe’s room was locked. _Of course_. The sheriff was a man whose secrets would be difficult to uncover, if you didn’t have his confidence.

Guy felt a moment of disorientation. This was so far removed from all that he knew – going from being Vaisey’s right hand, to being Robin’s spy? He supposed that’s what had to happen, if you learned that the right hand was about to be cut off. His own was shaking, as he inserted the key in the lock. Vaisey had no special security in place; he only needed to shield the new pact from casual eyes. He had no reason to suspect Guy knew anything about it, or that he would seek to know more.

Nonetheless, Guy couldn’t stop himself glancing nervously behind, flinching at the noise the lock made as the key turned. He was so accustomed to Vaisey being one step ahead of him – as if he somehow knew his thoughts – that Guy half expected the sheriff to pop out from behind a pillar and demand to know what he was doing, prying where he had no business.

The lock opened, and Guy ducked inside. He strode quickly around the desk and there – yes – laid out plain to see, with the same ornate detail and illustration as the original, was a new pact. He looked for his own name at the top of the list, but instead there was one there that made him grip the edges of the desk and stare hard. This was the only name, as he glanced down the list, that so far had no seal mark beside it. _The Earl of Huntingdon_. Guy shuddered. What once would have given him great satisfaction now unsettled him deeply; it never paid to underestimate Vaisey, his cunning knew no bounds.

His own name _was_ there, next on the list where it couldn’t be missed. Guy wondered, in a detached, yet-another-betrayal kind of way, which of his servants was Vaisey’s spy, who might have supplied the sheriff with the Gisborne seal. He cast his eyes over the rest of the names. They were all there, both the deceased and the living – Knighton; Merton, who’d been killed at the false king’s return; Woodvale, Loughborough….the list went on, with no other surprises, all the nobles in the shire loyal to the king. But this was loyalty that would be unknown and unsung, easy to discredit, while the king was far off and occupied with his holy war. He would have no way of knowing where his support truly lay at home. He would know only what he was told. And that….it was here, right before Guy’s eyes.

Could he destroy it? Leave a candle burning too near, make it look like the scribe’s carelessness? But no, Vaisey would know. Somehow, he would discover the truth. So, careful not to touch it, Guy backed away from the desk and left the room, concealing the key in his jacket. Two corridors away, he started to breathe more normally; stopped worrying how far the sound of his footsteps might carry, his boots loud on the stone floor.

“Ah, Gisborne. Just the man I wanted to see.”

Vaisey walked around the corner, and Guy felt sure guilt must emanate from him like an odour.

“Time you and I had a little chat with your boy. I’ve got a job for him.” Vaisey seemed to notice nothing amiss. “So, be a good man and fetch him for me, will you? Fifteen minutes, my chambers. Chop chop.”

Cursing, Guy began to search. He found Allan chatting with a kitchen maid. Eleven minutes.

“You got nothing better to do?” he snarled.

“Hey, I was checking on….”

“Save it. Sheriff wants to see you, now.”

When they entered, Vaisey was seated at his desk, writing. Accustomed to waiting, Guy stood near Allan, wondering if the matter concerned him or if he would be dismissed.

“Do you have everything you need here and at Locksley, Allan a-Dale?” the sheriff asked quietly, without looking up. “I assume that as Guy’s man you’re being looked after, hmm? Good food, new clothes, coin to spend on the ladies?”

“Yes, mi’lord. It’s luxury, after what I’ve been used to.”

“Ahh – now that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. See, as we all know, you were a member of Hood’s gang…..” the sheriff laid down his quill, and pushed back the chair. He rose, coming around the desk at a measured pace, his hands clasped behind him. “Yet you fell foul of the hooded one, and here you are.”

Vaisey raised both hands, a gesture of inclusion.

“And yet….” the hands came down to rest on Allan’s shoulders, and Vaisey leaned in to what Guy knew, from experience, was an uncomfortable proximity “….. _are_ you with us? Yes, you give us crumbs – Hood’s ways into the castle, clues about his activities, all very helpful, and yet….”

Here Vaisey’s voice dropped to a low, conspiratorial tone.

“…..I think you’re holding out on us, young man. We ask to be taken to Hood’s camp, and you lead us a merry dance into the forest, or you make some excuse. _I don’t know…there are traps….he moves about_ ,” Vaisey mimicked. “All very believable. Or is it?”

Vaisey squeezed Allan’s shoulders once, twice; Guy saw him wince. The sheriff leaned in to whisper in his ear:

“A clue….no.”

He stepped back, rubbing his hands together.

“So, I have a little job for you. A test, shall we say, a way for you to prove your loyalty. I want you to get something for me, an item which will be at Hood’s camp. Something very small, and you can put it back once I’m done with it.”

“What makes you think…..”

“Don’t play the idiot with me!” A solid clout accompanied Vaisey’s yell; Allan’s head snapped to one side with the force of it. “Of course you know where the camp is. And if you don’t, then you’d better find out in a hurry. Because - I want his seal.”

“His what?”

“You heard me. The estimable Earl of Huntingdon will I’m sure, even though he’s a filthy outlaw now, still carry this memento of noble rank with him.”

Allan rubbed his jaw, for once keeping silent. _He’s learning_ , Guy thought.

“So, you have one week, shall we say. And as a small incentive, if you don’t manage to get it for me, we’ll assume you’re a spy for Hood, and to stop you running and tattling to him we will have your tongue out.” His fingers mimed a clipping motion. “Is that clear?”

“Perfectly, mi’lord,” muttered Allan.

“What? I didn’t hear you….or are you just practising, mumble mumble…..” The sheriff cackled nastily. “Now go on, get out. Remember, you have one week. And if you start thinking of ways you might avoid the penalty, don’t bother….I’m making Guy here personally responsible for your continued presence. Now if _he_ loses a tongue, I sometimes think I’d hardly notice.”

Outside the door, Guy and Allan exchanged glances. Yet another complication, which they’d need to figure out how to handle. But not in the castle. _Later_ , mouthed Guy.

They both strode away in opposite directions.  
  
  



	16. Agendas

“You say they want to meet us again?” Robin asked. “Where?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Will said. “Allan thinks he’s being watched.”

Robin gnawed on a thumb, considering.

“He’s canny enough to give them the slip. He can sneak out of one of the upper rooms at the Trip, we’ll wait in the storeroom where they keep the barrels. Gisborne can get there without arousing suspicion, I assume?”

Will shrugged.

“Don’t see why not.”

“Good, then that’s settled. Tell them it’s tomorrow night.”

Will nodded, and trotted off.

“I wonder what’s happened, why Allan thinks he’s being followed,” said Marian, as they moved away. She smacked a hand against a tree trunk. “It’s times like this it would be useful to have someone in the castle, to find out exactly what’s going on.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re not there. Besides, we’ll know soon enough.”

“And did you find out from Guy if he’d try to locate my father’s seal for me?”

“There wasn’t chance to ask.”

“You didn’t fight again?” Robin could hear her exasperation.

“No. I told you we didn’t. Things may have got a little….tense, but no.”

Marian was silent, absently picking at the bark.

“Tell me,” she said after a few moments, “what happened to Guy when he was younger? Why did he say you’d once seen him driven away?”

Robin had been hoping to avoid this topic. He walked a bit further from the camp, Marian following.

“I know you don’t want to talk about this but surely, if there’s something wrong between the two of you, couldn’t it somehow be made right? Especially now.”

“No, it can’t Marian. Some things can’t be put right, and they’re better off left in the past.”

“Won’t you at least be open enough to….”

“….it was our parents, alright?” snapped Robin. “That day my father and his parents all died.”

“What happened?” Marian sat down on a log; she caught his hand, urging him to join her.

Robin tapped his fingers impatiently against one thigh; the memories were uncomfortable. Some more so than others; he dealt with them by telling himself Guy had only gotten what he deserved. He had, after all, been the one to start the fire…he’d never denied Longthorn’s accusation.

_Do something._ To this day Robin remembered yelling it, desperate, restrained by Swain, the villager who’d survived the burning wheel.

“Certain things happened that day which neither of us can forget,” he said quietly. “Gisborne’s father had returned from the Holy Land a leper….he’d been banished from the village, from keeping any company. But he’d come back, to see his wife.”

Marian’s thumb stroked his hand as she listened.

“My father went in to confront him. No one knows exactly what happened, but the house went up in flames, all three of them inside. Afterwards – when the bailiff came out of the ruins – he accused Guy of starting the fire. And Gisborne didn’t deny it.”

“An accident, surely? If his own parents were inside….Robin, that’s horrible. What happened?”

“The bailiff chased him off the estate, him and his younger sister, claiming it was Gisborne’s fault. Guy wasn’t seen again, not until he showed up here years later.”

“But they would have been so young,” Marian said. “Orphans…how did they survive? Would no one take them in?”

Robin shook his head.

“The bailiff told them to go back to France….Gisborne’s mother was from Normandy. So, they left….”

“…..and no one helped them.”

Marian bit her lip, sombre, thoughtful.

“So that’s what he meant, when he said you saw him driven away. Does he resent you, do you think, for doing nothing to help him?”

“What could I do?” Robin protested. “The bailiff was making a bid for my estate, I had my hands full fending him off. And I’d just lost…..”

Robin fell silent. He pursed his lips, and Marian gently squeezed his hand.

“I know, your own father. I’m so sorry Robin, I can see why it’s….painful. But does Guy hold this against you?”

Robin shrugged.

“Probably no more or less than he holds it against anyone else around here.”

“Yes, I can see that now.”

Marian was quiet, thoughtful. But she asked no more questions. Robin was glad. It meant he could keep buried the one thing which needed to stay buried: his guilt. Not over Gisborne’s banishment – he couldn’t have done much about that and, in all honesty, if serious accusations had been made about the fire Guy might have swung for it.

No. It went deeper than that. It was a child’s act, a moment of thoughtlessness.

Over the years, he’d told himself it wasn’t his fault. What child could avoid tattling, with news so large? With the prospect of drama ahead? _The leper’s back!_ One small act, that like a boulder gathering momentum downhill had started rolling, and then it couldn’t be hauled back. And how differently that day – and their lives – might have played out, if Roger of Gisborne had been allowed to come and go in peace and stealth. One thoughtless act, and suddenly three lives were lost, and a life’s burden of guilt assumed.

_Let me think._

He was always telling the gang this. _I need to think._

A lesson he’d never forgotten – if only he had thought first, on that fateful day. But it was one which had come at an awful cost. It didn’t matter, now, how well the lesson had been learned. Because it would never change the past, or erase a tragedy which had helped shape the men both he and Gisborne had become to the present day.

                                                      ——————————————————————————————

Marian crouched on the hillside above Locksley village, concealed by shade, watching the movements of the guards at the entrance to the manor. There were only two, one at the front, another by the kitchen door. When this one sauntered around the front to chat with his fellow, Marian left her hiding place, and slipped down behind the bowmaker’s house into the village.

When Robin had said he wouldn’t be taking her into Nottingham for the next meeting, given how her presence had affected Guy in the barn at Knighton, Marian had accepted this without comment. Robin had taken this as a sign that she was prepared to accept his leadership now, which indeed she was.

But she’d seen no need to apprise him of her other plans. 

There were certain things she needed to know, and which Guy could help her with. Marian still didn’t know where her father was buried, and Guy had promised to find this out for her. Too many days had passed already. Loss twisted in Marian’s heart. Her father’s calm, gentle support had been a constant running through her life like a brook through a valley, and without it she felt adrift. He would be glad she was with Robin now, and that they were betrothed again. _Tell her, it is good to dream._ Tears blurred her view of the manor. She needed to be able to say goodbye to her father, properly.

But there were other reasons as well. No one had acknowledged it, but Guy had been the one responsible for having her things returned from the castle. She wanted to thank him, but Robin was right: Guy had been incensed by her sudden appearance in the barn. It troubled her, that there should be this bad feeling between them. Especially now that he had begun co-operating with Robin.

She didn’t want to antagonise Guy further; he had every reason to be angry with her. But at Knighton, that one time at least he’d been wrong about her motives – well, partly. Seeing Robin in danger had propelled her from hiding, but when she’d seen Robin swipe the blade from Guy’s leathers, she hadn’t wanted to see it used. There was no point telling Guy this, though; he’d never believe her. And why would he?

But there was nothing to stop her offering an olive branch of a different kind. What better way to do this than to visit the new Lady Gisborne? She could leave a message for Guy with Meg.

Ducking past cottages, Marian stealthily made her way around to the kitchen entrance. Finding it still unguarded, she peered inside, aware Guy’s servants would raise the alarm if she were seen. But all was quiet. She slipped inside, and then listened at the inner door. She heard feminine voices, and before she could withdraw the door was pulled open and a plump girl with a dark braid, carrying a basket of eggs, came through it. They collided; the contents of the basket tipped out. The girl’s cry summoned Meg.

“Esther, what’s happened? Oh, what a mess. Quick, we…..” Meg paused. “Oh. It’s you. What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry, let me help.”

“No. Go in there, before the guards see you. I’ll be in when we’ve cleaned up this mess.”

It occurred to Marian that a pile of broken eggs would be less of a mess than the one she’d find herself in if for any reason she were caught here. Seeing now that she was unwelcome, Marian suddenly questioned the wisdom of this whole idea. Robin wouldn’t understand; he’d be furious. And Guy…if he returned while she was here….

Best to explain quickly to Meg why she’d come, and then be gone. Moments later, Meg entered, drying off her hands. She was barefoot, having discarded shoes that were sticky with egg. 

“If you’ve come to see Guy, he’s not here,” she said abruptly. “And to be honest, I don’t know what business you might have that couldn’t have been solved when you lived in the castle.”

“It’s my father,” Marian said. “I don’t know where he’s been buried, and Guy was going to find out for me.”

“You must miss Sir Edward terribly,” Meg said gently.

“I do,” said Marian.

“And yes, you need to know his resting-place. I’ll ask Guy, and get word to you somehow.” Meg paused, looking at her closely. “But you could have asked Allan this, Guy tells me he still has ways to contact you. So, was there some other reason that you came here?”

“To see you,” Marian admitted. “Although, it concerns Guy.”

“Of course,” muttered Meg.

“Why do you say that?” Marian asked curiously.

“Never mind. Just tell me what it is you want.”

Marian felt uncomfortable now, unsure how to proceed. She’d been isolated from others of her class for so long, needing to keep so many secrets. Preoccupied with her own concerns – her father’s health, Guy’s single-minded pursuit, helping Robin – it had left no time at all for making female friends. And to be honest, when the conversation at banquets tended towards gowns, and jewellery, and how to attract a suitor, Marian had struggled to pay attention, her thoughts skittering instead to the forest, and to how the outlaws – and one in particular – might be spending a congenial evening around the fire.

It hadn’t really occurred to her that Meg, knowing some of her history with Guy, might resent her presence. How her aim to make peace with Guy might be misconstrued. They were newly-wed, after all; it probably would have been best to leave them alone.

Aware Meg was waiting for an answer, Marian confessed the other reason for her visit.

“I’ve a favour to ask of him. Robin was supposed to mention it when they met, but he forgot. They’re meeting again tomorrow night….”

“….I know….”

This surprised Marian, but she carried on.

“….but whatever it is they need to discuss, I was afraid this might get forgotten again in the heat of the moment.”

“If Robin had been less intent on antagonising Guy, he might not have forgotten the last time,” Meg observed dryly.

Marian huffed, while noting that Meg had obviously been present at the meeting.

“They do tend to bring out the worst in each other.”

“You don’t say.” Wry smiles were exchanged. “Come, sit down. Esther can fetch us a cordial.”

Meg called her maid and gave the instruction.

“So, what do you want Guy to do?”

Marian told Meg about her father’s missing seal.

“So, if there was any way that he could search my father’s old chambers….”

“You know that could get him killed, if he’s caught? In fact, I’m surprised he’s survived this job for as long as he has. And spying for you lot, he won’t even have to worry about what might happen when he gets to Acre.”

“You know about that?” exclaimed Marian.

“Yes, of course I do. He told me, so I wouldn’t marry him.”

“And yet you did.”

“Yes. I did.”

A host of questions tumbled through Marian’s mind, not one of which she could frame into a coherent sentence. It seemed surreal to her, to be sitting here, sipping cordial on a fading spring afternoon, with this chit of a girl who’d willingly assumed a role she herself had spent years trying to avoid: that of Lady Gisborne.

But Meg saved her the need to frame them.

“So, is that all?” she demanded.

“No,” Marian admitted. “I wanted to make my peace with him. I hoped that you might pass on my thanks, because he saw to it that I got my belongings out of the castle. I hoped that now he can see I’ve nothing to gain from him, that any offer of friendship I make would be genuine.”

Meg gazed at her in silence for a few moments. Marian got the impression that she was choosing quite carefully what she wanted to say next.

“You know, I think it would be better if you left him – if you left us – in peace. It may be too late for becoming his friend, or it may not. But at the moment, I think it would be better….” Meg’s words frayed, her voice shaking a little.

“…you know, I think loving you tied him up in knots so tight that I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to unravel them. But I’d like to try. So, I’m asking you to please respect that, and to leave us - to leave him - alone.”

Marian swallowed back her hurt; after all, the rebuff was deserved. But to witness the history between her and Guy affecting this fledgling marriage made her.....uncomfortable. 

“I think you should go now,” Meg said. “It’s a risk for you to be seen here.”

Marian was already rising, tucking her turmoil away behind a calm exterior. Then Meg reached out, placing a hand on her arm.

“I don’t mean to be rude, or hurtful,” she said. “I’ll pass on both your requests, and Guy can probably find a way to look for the seal without getting caught.”

Moved by Meg’s conciliatory gesture, Marian had the impulse to share something with her.

“He does talk to you, doesn’t he? About…things.”

“Some things,” Meg said warily.

“Then ask him, sometime, about his parents. I think it would be good for him….to know that you care enough to ask. And I see that you do.”

“Yes,” Meg said, “I do. And I will ask him, thank you. Now go – put your hood up, so that you aren’t seen.”

Distracted, Marian did as Meg suggested. But she saw that the guard had returned to his post by the kitchen door.

“Wait,” whispered Meg, “I’ll get rid of him.”

She went outside, and Marian heard Meg send him on an errand to the stables. The new Lady Gisborne, she mused - stronger than she looked, sweet, and seemingly genuinely fond of Guy - would make a far better candidate for the role than she herself could ever have been. She edged past Meg, with a smile of thanks.

But the moment the door closed behind Meg, the other guard charged round the corner.

”Oi, you! Stop.”

Heart pounding, Marian reached for her sword, but before she could draw it the door reopened.

“What’s going.....”

Meg stepped out. The guard was too late to dodge; they collided and fell. As the man scrambled up, Marian hefted the slops bucket by the door and swung a blow which stunned her attacker. Acutely aware that the ruckus might draw the other guard from the stables, with a grateful glance for Meg Marian used the advantage of those precious seconds to turn and flee.

                                               ———————————————————————————————————

  
“And no one,” raged Vaisey, “upon seeing a known outlaw enter Locksley Manor in broad daylight, saw fit to arrest her?”

“They tried, but.....”

“Incompetent fools!”

Vaisey stabbed at the pieces of cheese on the plate beside his ledger. He clicked his fingers for a guard.

”You,” he said, when the man entered, “more grapes. And tell the girl not to be so stingy with them this time.”

“So,” he went on, returning to the conversation at hand, “the Lady Marian was seen leaving Locksley Manor, when only the Lady Gisborne was at home?”

“Just so, mi’lord.”

“Very good. Then what are you waiting for?”

“I’m sorry?”

Vaisey closed his eyes briefly, wondering how some of these idiots managed to get themselves out of bed in the morning.

“My good man, we have a result of sorts, so go and arrest her.”

”The Lady Gisborne?”

”Yes,” he replied, with exaggerated patience. 

Vaisey could see consternation flitter across the guard’s face, at the thought of detaining Gisborne’s wife. Wisely deciding that he feared him more than his master-at-arms, the guard inclined his head and went to do his bidding. Frustrated, Vaisey selected a sliver of cheese and sat back in his chair, chewing thoughtfully.

He wasn’t sure exactly when Gisborne had become such a liability. Of course, his lieutenant’s career had been littered with failures, beginning with that botched regicide. At the time, that had been particularly awkward to explain away; it had taken a great deal of scrambling to recover his lost graces.

Failure always came at a cost. And yet, Gisborne had been allowed to continue at his side: trusted with many things, promised many things, failing many things. He’d never managed to bring Hood to justice. Had lost many a skirmish to the perpetually annoying outlaw. Gisborne’s inability to get the job done astounded Vaisey sometimes. His incompetence was exacerbated by the way he’d moped around after that little witch who, all along, had been in league with Hood. Vaisey’s lip curled. He should have known.

He’d been quite proud of himself, then; such a neat solution, to give Gisborne a new leper, one to take his mind off the traitorous Lady Marian once she’d absconded with Hood. _The Night Watchman._ Vaisey’s fists clenched on the chair arms. _All along, right under our very noses._ He would catch her one day, he vowed; he would have the pleasure of seeing her hang.

For the moment, however, he still had other agendas he could pursue. Time to tweak the leash on Gisborne a little. Vaisey sniggered. _A lot._

What had he been doing in that corridor the day before? He’d seemed startled to see him, a reaction swiftly hid, but Guy was no dissimulator. He was so easy to read; it was one thing that had kept Guy in his service for so long. Much easier to control someone if you knew they couldn’t hide from you the things that they most wished to hide.

And Gisborne was hiding something. He’d come from the direction of the scribe’s quarters. _Interesting_.

Failure always came at a cost. With a new and important task ahead of them, Vaisey didn’t want to be the one bearing that cost. This time, there could be no failing. None. So, it was time to bring Gisborne to heel. To make sure that he would do whatever he was bid. And what better way to do this than to take away his new playmate?

_Where are those grapes?_ Vaisey jerked the bell, twice. For her tardiness, the girl could stay and entertain him a while.

Yes – the more he thought about it, the more this idea appealed to him, of incarcerating the Lady Gisborne. Not the dungeon…too uncouth. No, a room in the tower. He would deny Guy visits, for a while. Keep him hungry. And then…Vaisey picked his teeth, toying with the thought. _Control_. He liked the power this would give him over Gisborne. When – and if - he did allow Gisborne to visit his lady leper, the tower walls might give a veil of privacy, but in truth he would know exactly what was taking place behind them.  
_Control. Power._ Vaisey drew in a great, satisfied breath; exhaled it slowly. _Nothing compares. Something the little people never experience. And something Gisborne has never properly learned._

He was reaching for the bell-pull again, exasperated, when there was a knock. The serving girl entered, bearing a bowl of grapes. She seemed nervous.

“Close the door, my dear,” Vaisey purred, with a heavy-lidded gaze.

He beckoned the girl towards him. 

                                                 ——————————————————————————————————

“Mi’lord, there must be some mistake.”

“Dear boy, don’t you ever knock?”

Guy knew he should tread cautiously, but rage and worry made it hard for him to think straight. 

He’d ridden home expecting a quiet evening with Meg –after a shared meal they would sit over a goblet of wine and talk a little, or not, and then when the time came would go up to their shared bed. A chaste one; Guy wouldn’t subject her to his advances again, nor had Meg made further invitation. And yet….he had no complaints.

Instead, Thornton had met him with the news his wife had been arrested; the sheriff’s guards had come for her not an hour earlier.

“On what charge?” Guy had demanded.

“Consorting with outlaws, I believe, but the details were a little hazy,” Thornton had replied.

Guy had swung immediately back up onto his horse, questions roiling in his head as he rode at pace back to Nottingham. Who could have been there? Not Hood, surely; they were meeting the next evening. Guy cursed himself; he should have known something like this would happen, should have protected her. But he’d never expected it to happen so soon. Meg should have listened; she should never have wed him.

With an effort, Guy calmed himself. He had to find out all he could, and make sure Meg was alright; get her released, if possible.

“Mi’lord, I hear my wife has been detained. There must be some mistake.”

“No – no mistake, Gisborne. You see, she was seen receiving a visit from an outlaw today….the erstwhile Lady Marian. And you, of all people, should be horrified by this. A traitor, in your bed no less….you do seem to be drawn to them. I wonder if it says something about you…. about your tastes .”

In no mood for the sheriff’s taunts, Guy pressed on.

“She is innocent, I can promise you that. How can she be at fault if someone sneaks into the manor? Maybe she didn’t know Marian was there.”

It sounded desperate even to Guy’s ears.

“Oh, she knew alright. She was seen distracting the guard so that the Lady Marian could make her exit. Now that smacks of complicity, doesn’t it?”

“Mi’lord please, Meg has a kind heart, she just wouldn’t have wanted….”

“La-di-da-di-da….now Gisborne, surely you know me better than that. Do I care? A clue….no. So, stop bleating on about her kind heart, and instead make sure that your man does the job I’ve given him. Because I’ve had a rather useful thought. We all know the penalty for consorting with outlaws, hmm? But I don’t think I’ll hang the Lady Gisborne. It’s a little too vulgar, and very hard on you. But I have made a decision. I won’t cut out Allan’s tongue, if he fails us, but I will need someone’s….”

Guy tried to protest, but the horror of the thought choked him.

“Here, have some water…..gulp it down, dear boy.”

“No,” croaked Guy, shoving the cup away. Its contents splashed onto the stones.

“Oh. Very well, don’t have any. But I didn’t know you were so squeamish. You don’t mind a bit of tongue-cutting when it’s your villagers.”

Provoked, Guy walked to the window and leaned his hands on the embrasure, his head bowed. This wasn’t helping, he knew. Any show of weakness, of concern, would play right into Vaisey’s hands. But his palms were sweating inside his gloves. He needed to know where Meg was; if she was in the dungeons he must get her out. And he’d do it without Vaisey knowing.

Guy straightened then, and faced the sheriff.

“I want to see her,” he ground out.

Vaisey tutted.

“Now that would hardly be a punishment, would it? So no, I think not. Let’s give the Lady Gisborne a day or two to ponder her crime, and then we’ll chat about it again, shall we?”

Guy knew he’d get nothing further from Vaisey; he left the sheriff’s chambers, fetched his mare from the stables, and rode back to Locksley. Found Allan dicing with the stable-hand. He grabbed Allan’s collar, and hauled him up.

“Come with me. I need to talk to you, now.”

“Alright, alright, gimme a minute,” he grumbled, collecting his loot.

Guy strode outside; he tilted his head back, closing his eyes. Moments later, Allan came out.

“This way,” instructed Guy, leading him out of the courtyard and down to the village pond.

“I need you to take me to Hood. Now,” Guy said, his voice low and furious.

“Why? What’s going on? We’re seeing him tomorrow night anyway.”

“Well, it can’t wait.”

“This has to do with Meg, right? I heard the guards came for her. What’s with that?”

“Marian was here. The sheriff’s accused her of consorting with outlaws.”

“Marian was here? Why?”

“How the hell would I know?” snapped Guy. “That’s what I’d like to find out.”

“Yeah, but that’s not enough reason to go charging off into the forest in the middle of the night. Besides…..”

“There’s the seal as well. It can’t wait.”

“Look, Guy, I can’t just take you to the camp, Robin’ll kill me.”

“Why?” This stalled Allan’s protests. “We’re working together now.”

Allan churned this over.

“Well – I suppose. If you put it like that….”

“Then come on,” urged Guy, seizing his advantage. “Let’s go.”

Acquiescing at last, Allan gave a shrug and then loped off, leading Guy away into the deeper darkness beneath the trees.  
  
  
  
  



	17. Tests

“Who’s that?” A tall shape loomed out of the darkness.

“John, it’s me,” said Allan.

“What do you want? And why is _he_ here?”

“They’re allies now, remember? Robin won’t mind.”

“You don’t think?” Guy heard the staff thump against a tree trunk, twice, just loud enough to rouse a light sleeper.

Moments later – and Guy hadn’t heard him approach, or seen from which direction – Robin was there, pulling on his shirt. Guy had a fleeting image of Marian lying in Hood’s bed, but anger at her short-sightedness, at her impulsiveness, anger that she’d brought this whole situation about, quickly swamped any other emotion he might have had.

“Gisborne….so keen to talk to me you can’t wait till tomorrow?’

“Shut it, Locksley. The sheriff has Meg.”

“What?” the outlaw demanded. “Why?”

“Ask Marian. She went to Locksley today, and now Vaisey’s accused Meg of consorting with outlaws.”

Robin groaned, rubbing a hand through his hair.

“Come on. We’d better talk.”

But instead of leading them to the camp, Hood took them off in a different direction; Guy realised this when Allan questioned it.

“Where are we going then?”

“You might have been followed,” Robin said tersely. “We heard you were being watched.”

“So, the cave?”

Robin grunted an assent. He halted their progress several times, listening for anything beyond the usual, identifiable might-time forest sounds. Only when he was satisfied did they move on.

In the cave, he made short work of lighting a fire from the fuel already stacked there. 

“Tell me,” said Robin, once the three of them were seated around it. “What’s happened?”

“All I know is what I told you. I don’t know what Marian wanted, just that she was seen.”

“Which means you have a spy in your household – someone reported it to the sheriff.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Guy. “Or he may have just had someone watching the house, otherwise Marian would have been arrested.”

”Well, first things first. What do you want me to do about it?”

The question grated, the blunt assertion that he was going to him for help. Which, Guy supposed, he was, but not in the way Robin meant.

“You can help us by giving the sheriff something of yours he wants.”

Robin snorted.

“That again. I thought I told you, he’s not getting the pact.”

“Not the pact,” put in Allan. “He’s making this new one, and he wants your seal for it.”

“Wait, what?”

“I’ve seen it,” Guy said. “And your name is on the new one, as plain as day, the Earl of Huntingdon.”

Robin laughed, incredulous.

“He’s dreaming. The king would never believe it. Putting my name on there will just undermine its credibility.”

“Full of yourself, aren’t you Locksley?” Guy muttered into the flames.

“As your wife told me, grow up Gisborne….”

“Look, can’t we just get on with it?” Allan said. “Whether your name will undermine it or not doesn’t matter, the sheriff wants it on there, and he needs your seal.”

“That’s not possible.” Robin shook his head. “He can’t have it.”

“Then he’ll have my tongue out, he reckons.”

“No,” croaked Guy. “Not yours now. Meg’s.”

Allan gave a shocked laugh.

“He sure knows how to twist the knife, that one,” Allan said, half-admiringly. “Remind me, why do you work for him again?”

“I wouldn’t be so smug,” snarled Guy. “Remember you do too.”

“Yeah, and I bloody wonder why every day. But look, what are we going to do about this, then? Robin?”

“You don’t know what you’re asking, both of you. I can’t let that seal out of my hands, to anyone, and especially not the sheriff. He could bind my name to anything.”

“Yeah, but can’t you just…..”

“Allan, you’re not listening. I can’t do it.”

“No you’re not listening,” Guy growled. “I told you, he has Meg, and if we don’t front up with that seal…..”

“No.”

“I should have known.” Guy shoved to his feet, kicking the end of a branch that stuck out from the flames. They crackled and spat as others were dislodged. Hood and Allan moved back, sparks flying up. “You’d do it if it were Marian, but because it’s Meg…”

“Don’t be an idiot. Sit down. We’ll think of something, just give me a minute.”

But Guy ignored him, pacing the confines of the cave, angry at Marian for getting them into this mess, furious with Hood for not co-operating. And beneath it all, gnawing away, was his concern for Meg. Was she being treated properly? Was she scared, or wondering why he didn’t go to her? Did Vaisey abuse her? The thought sent cold chills through him. He’d put nothing past the sheriff.

“Well?” he snapped, swinging back to the fire.

“Wait, I have an idea,” said Allan. “I might know someone who could make you up another one.”

“What, a fake one?” Robin asked, interested. He pressed a fist to his lips, thinking. “Now that could work. Change a detail or two, something small. The sheriff would never know, but the king would. He knows my seal. It would be enough to invalidate anything Vaisey might put my name to.”

“Good. Then let’s do it,” said Guy.

“Problem is, he lives in York. I don’t know if we have enough time.....”

“How long have we got?” Robin asked.

“Just under a week,” said Allan.

“It’ll do. Right then, let’s do this.” Robin stood. “You wait here, I’ll be back soon with a design you can use.”

With the outlaw gone, the cave fell silent. Guy’s paces kicked up puffs of dust; Allan lolled by the fire, picking his teeth with a twig.

“So, this is a forger we’re dealing with, then,” Guy said at length.

“Which is why I can’t tell you his name.”

“And I suppose you know many of his sort?”

“Hey, Giz, get used to it,” retorted Allan. “ _Outlaws_. Would you rather see Meg lose her tongue?”

Guy grunted; the younger man had a point. And why should he care, when all that the law had become around here was the twisted malice of the sheriff? It just made more of a mockery of all he’d been doing over the past few years.

With a sigh, he went and sat back down by the fire with Allan, and they waited for Robin to return.

                                                    —————————————————————————————————-

Meg undid the braid she’d woven for something to do and ran her fingers through her hair, shaking it loose. She went to the table and picked again at the figs and sweets laid out there. They were feeding her, so it was certain she wouldn’t starve. But boredom would kill her, if nothing else….if the sheriff didn’t get to her first.

But her fear of that had subsided a little, since those first few hours after they’d brought her in.

That was two days ago, now. It was hard work to be afraid, all of the time. She’d managed it the first night, lying awake in the unfamiliar room, listening to every creak and footfall past her door, afraid that the odious sheriff would pay her a visit. But no one had come. Not even Guy. Him she’d desperately wanted to see, and still he hadn’t come. The neglect hurt her. Did he not miss her? Was she nothing more than an inconvenience after all?

She could have sworn, in the days before her arrest, that there was reason to hope they’d grown closer. One evening, Guy had been late home. Meg had fretted upstairs, telling herself he’d be there, that he wasn’t going to withdraw from her again; surely the sheriff had tasked him with something which had caused the delay. When she heard a horse approach, followed by the sound of his voice, Meg had hastened downstairs. Had noticed, instantly, the cluster of lilac primroses in a jar on the mantel. Guy had said nothing, but during dinner she’d taken his hand, and pressed a kiss to his cheek, and whispered her thanks.

“Be quiet woman, you’ll ruin my reputation,” he’d mock-grumbled, glancing at the guards in the next room.

“Yes, I know,” smiled Meg. “The fearsome Guy of Gisborne.”

Not so fearsome, the way he’d wrapped himself around her in bed that night and whispered “sweet Meg” against her ear as they drifted off to sleep.

Where was he? Frustrated, Meg picked up the brush and began taking it out on her still-tangled hair.

“Here, my dear. Let me.”

Meg jumped; she hadn’t heard the door open. She swung round, and glanced beyond Vaisey, noting that the door was locked behind him again.

“Why am I here?” she demanded, though needing to clear her throat rather spoiled the bravado of it.

“Oh, I think you know. Here, give me that.” The sheriff waggled his fingers for the brush. She handed it over. “Sit down, Lady Gisborne.”

Meg sat, poised on the edge of the bed. The sheriff tssked.

“No, not there. Over here.” He tapped the chair beside the desk.

Meg complied. Vaisey came and stood behind her, absently tapping the brush against her left shoulder. 

“Why are you here? Well, the Lady Marian is an outlaw, and you were seen speaking with her. That alone, my dear, is reason enough for me to hang you. But as I told our dear Gisborne, nothing so vulgar. Instead I’ve given him a little task, and I’ve used you as an incentive. Which is the real reason you are here.”

The brush began to move through her hair; not ungently, but no less full of threat. Meg knew that behind this benign act the mercurial sheriff hid a vicious capacity for cruelty. Threat lurked in each word, in every move; nothing could hide his true nature, any more than a viper could be ought but a poisonous beast.

“I want to know, you see,” he was saying – _stroke, stroke_ , falsely soothing in its rhythm – “if you are going to be of any _use_ to me.”

“I won’t spy for you. I’ll do nothing to harm Guy.”

Vaisey chuckled.

“Such loyalty, so soon…that’s good, very good. I love it.”

The brush caught a knot. Instead of using his other hand to offset it, the sheriff yanked the brush through, making Meg yelp. Her eyes watered.

“You see, my dear,” he leaned down, his breath brushing her neck, “what I giveth, I can also take away….I’m just giving our Gizzy a little reminder of that. And don’t you forget it, either.”

A final, savage yank of the brush. Meg whimpered. She felt Vaisey’s hands, nauseatingly warm, come to rest on her shoulders, his thumbs massaging the base of her neck. Meg was acutely conscious of the locked door. She hated Vaisey’s hands on her, so near her neck....it made her feel like one of his poor little caged birds, utterly at his mercy.

 _Enough_. She shrugged him off and got to her feet.

“Lord Sheriff,” she began, her voice trembling just a little, “I don’t think….”

A twist of the door handle, and then a pounding, interrupted her.

“Ah, punctual. I told him he could visit you at sunset.” Vaisey stepped in close and took her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Now let’s hope he has good news, hmm? I might have forgotten to mention – this job I’ve given him? If he fails…there’ll be no more words of love from you, in fact no more words at all….”

Meg pushed his hand away.

“What do you mean?”

“Do I need to make myself clearer? Well,” and here Vaisey spoke very slowly and clearly, “I …. will have…your…tongue…..”

Meg stared at him, horrified. Vaisey chortled at her silence.

“What, nothing to say? Perhaps you won’t miss it then.” He pushed past her then and, taking the key from his jacket, unlocked the door.

“She’s all yours, my dear boy. Just one hour.”

Guy looked haggard, Meg saw, and she felt a pang of guilt for adding to his burdens. He stood inside the door and held up a warning finger, listening until he was satisfied that he’d heard Vaisey’s footsteps move away down the corridor. Then he crossed to her with swift strides and took hold of her arms.

“What did he do? What did he say?” Guy demanded, looking at her intently.

“He…he brushed my hair.” A small, hysterical chuckle escaped her; it sounded so innocuous, so completely devoid of the menace which accompanied any deed the sheriff performed.

“Is that all?”

“He….”

What? Massaged her neck? It would sound silly to report this…again, an action so harmless on the surface. But how to explain the creeping fear which had only been allayed by Guy’s knock? And Meg knew she would barricade the door to the best of her ability later, and again lie listening for sounds that didn’t belong in the night.

“What? Did he touch you? Frighten you?”

“He....told me what he’d threatened.” Meg swallowed, suddenly conscious of the tongue resting in her mouth, in a way that she hadn’t been before.

“I knew this would happen,” Guy said bitterly. He strode to the window, to the desk, pacing like a tethered bear. “I warned you not to marry me.”

“So this is my fault now?” snapped Meg, all her pleasure at seeing him evaporating.

“You could have avoided it. Gone elsewhere.” He stopped mid-stride, gazing at her. “You still can. I’ll get you out of here, somehow, and we’ll get you away to safety.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Meg said. “We’re wed now. Are you telling me you can’t do the task he’s given you?”

“We’ve got it under control.”

“We?”

“Me. Allan.” Guy mouthed the final name: “Robin.”

Meg nodded.

“Good. I’m glad.”

She stumbled back to the edge of the bed and slumped down, all the fight going out of her. The accumulated tensions of the past days, her incarceration, the sheriff’s intimidation, Guy’s absence and now – still, after everything – his desire to be rid of her. It was this that made her turn her face away, trying to hide her tears.

The bed gave a little as Guy sat down beside her.

“What else? What aren’t you telling me?” he said gruffly, pulling her into his arms.

“I know you don’t want me around, but it’s too late,” Meg replied, sniffing. “The sheriff said…”

“Why do you say that?”

“Why do you think? You’re always trying to send me away.”

“For your own sake, you stupid girl.” The soothing strokes of his hand, and his lips against her hair, belied the insult.

“I wonder,” Meg tried to jest, “if maybe you could come up with some other endearment?”

“Like what? You didn’t like my other attempt.”

“Which was?”

“Dung-girl.”

Meg sputtered a laugh.

“You’re right….you don’t do too well. Although,” she murmured, “I did quite like _sweet Meg_.”

The strokes ceased; Meg knew they were both recalling other moments when he’d used it, some more intimate than others. Abruptly, Guy released her, and she wondered if she’d been mistaken to mention it. But Guy kicked off his boots and shrugged out of his jacket and then walked to the head of the bed. He sat, leaning against the headboard, and motioned her to join him, which she did.

“Tell me what else he said.”

“Just that he will use me to get to you.”

Guy snorted.

“Of course…that goes without saying.”

“Which is why I can’t go anywhere, even if I wanted to. To get me away would be screaming that you have something to hide, some reason for him to question your loyalty,” Meg pointed out. “So, you see, you are stuck with me.”

“Only if I can get you out of here,” Guy said grimly.

“How will you do that?”

“By giving the sheriff what he wants. And if he doesn’t release you then…well, we’ll find a way.”

“It’s good to hear you say that.”

“What?”

“That we will find a way….not just me. _We_.”

Guy made no reply; he just held her against his chest. He was warm, and solid, and smelled of leather and horses. The daylight was fast disappearing, and Meg knew their hour was also. The room was full of day’s-end gloom, but neither made a move to light tapers or candles. They shifted position, lying flat, their limbs wound together.

“I wish you could stay,” Meg murmured.

“I’ll be in the castle,” he said. “Locksley’s too quiet without….it’s too quiet now.”

The inference warmed Meg, and the knowledge he’d be somewhere nearby was consoling, even if common sense told her Guy could be no practical help if Vaisey did come to her room.

She didn’t know what impelled her to turn in his arms, to lift her face. But as lips met, as hands roamed and bodies twined, Meg just knew that she _was_ comforted. Then they lay still, and quiet, and when the knock came to summon him away she felt restless, and bereft, and paced a long while around the confining room. Her dinner tray came, and later was taken away. Candles burned down. She grew hot, and bothered, moving the chest from its place at the end of the bed to a position against the door, wincing at the noise it made as it scraped against the floor.

She changed into her shift and climbed into bed. _Too quiet_. Meg lay on her side, her hand resting on the coverlet where Guy had been earlier. Was there hope for them, then? She would never know while she was locked away here, this arrest interrupting the first, fragile steps they’d taken as husband and wife.

Meg longed to be at Locksley so that she could find out. Hopefully, with her tongue still intact in her mouth. The images this put into her head – fear, rushing in, like water finding the gaps in a submerged barrel – soon had her shaking, and burying herself under the covers. But it was no use. In the end she ripped the coverlet from the bed and wrapped herself up in it tightly, calling up memories of primroses and leather-scent, of tender kisses and warm hands, to try and lull herself to sleep. 


	18. Preparations

“Oh….this is marvellous…” cooed Vaisey. “Gisborne, do you know what this means? Anything the Black Knights ratify, I can now make Hood a party to as well! He won’t be so keen to turn up proof if it brands him a traitor as well.”

Vaisey turned the seal over in his hands. He paused, brushing a fingertip across one of the indentations, and Guy felt sweat bead on his brow. Despite having examined the fake seal himself when Allan had brought it to him - and the workmanship was of fine quality – Guy had to resist the urge now to lean in and check that he hadn’t missed something, some tell-tale sign that would alert Vaisey to their subterfuge.

“Right.” Vaisey tapped the seal against the back of his hand. “Very good. Your boy is of some use after all.”

He placed the seal in a small casket on the desk; locking it, he pocketed the key.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” the sheriff drawled, taking his seat.

“M’lord?”

“Your lady wife….you’ve done the job I set you both, so she’s free to leave now. Let’s just hope that she’s learned her lesson. Next time, I won’t be so…accommodating.”

Relieved, Guy strode to the door; paused there, when Vaisey cleared his throat.

“You know that I need you back here?”

“M’lord?”

“ _M’lord_ ,” mimicked Vaisey. “Could you not vary your speech just a little, Gisborne? I need you back here, so just get her sent home. And you’ll need this.”

Vaisey lifted a key from the draw and waved it at him.

Outside the door, Guy debated briefly whether to send Meg straight back to Locksley or have her wait in his room. But the sooner she was out of the castle, the better; he was confident Meg would feel the same.

Perversely, Vaisey made sure it was little shy of midnight before he was free to leave. Guy rode the darkened road to Locksley just a little faster than usual, mindful of the fact he already had one mount out of action. When he neared the estate, Guy reined in; the horse stamped and blew, flecks of spittle blowing back on him. He could see no lamp-light seeping from cracks or seams of shutters, either upstairs or down. Guy told himself it was late, that Meg wouldn’t have waited up. But he couldn’t contain the frisson of alarm which had him dig spurs into the animal’s flank and hurtle the final half mile home, afraid that she could have fallen prey to some mischance.

Or worse, if Vaisey was of a mind for games.

The house was quiet. Guy strode upstairs, spurs clanking, half-hoping – although this was selfish – to wake Meg, so that they could talk. A wry smile crossed his face; only a few weeks earlier, he’d accused Meg of endless chatter. Yet these past days of her imprisonment, he’d missed her company.

Their room was empty, the bedclothes undisturbed. Guy clattered back down the stairs, about to holler for Thornton when he saw a sliver of candlelight beneath the door of the lower room. He pushed it open and saw Meg asleep there. She was propped awkwardly against the wall, with the estate ledger, of all things, wedged up against her leg. A smile twitched Guy’s lips. He crossed to the bed and was about to begin rearranging skirts, legs and ledger when Meg’s eyes opened. She looked up at him, blearily.

“Bedtime reading?” Guy inquired, tapping the ledger. “Why down here…..?”

“Too awkward to lug upstairs,” mumbled Meg.

She sat up, rolling her shoulder; she winced, rubbing it.

“Turn around,” Guy said gruffly.

Meg complied, and he set to work, easing out the tension in her neck and shoulders. As she relaxed beneath his hands, he judged it as good a time as any to raise the decision which these past few days had driven him to.

“There’s no point getting to know the estate,” he said bluntly. “We’re leaving.”

Meg swivelled, dislodging his hands.

“What?” She looked up at him, perplexed. “To go where? To do what?”

“North. The continent. Anywhere, I don’t know. I just know we can’t stay here any longer.”

“I can see you’ve given this a lot of thought,” grumbled Meg. “So, this is because Vaisey locked me up?”

“Yes,” admitted Guy. “And it won’t stop there. It was a warning this time but Meg, you’re a thumb-screw he can twist any time he wants something from me. And if you won’t leave, then we must both go.”

“I don’t understand.” Meg shook her head, slowly, as if trying to clear her thoughts. “Why would you…why now, after all this time? After all you’ve put up with from him…”

“But that’s just it, isn’t it?” Guy said bitterly. “It’s not only myself anymore. And besides, it’s all been for nothing. I told you from the start, he wants to brand me a traitor. Even without that, what do I have? An estate that’s never truly been mine…it’ll revert to Hood, when the king returns. And suppose I did keep it, what then? I could never protect you, or anyone I care about, from Vaisey. He owns me, Meg. And I’ve let him.”

“So, you want to run away?”

“Woman, you’re not listening…”

“Of course I am,” Meg snapped.

“We have no future,” Guy ground out.

“Listen, you’re not thinking. There is no future with Vaisey, we know that. But soon you’ll go to the Holy Land, and how can he possibly harm me after that? You and Robin will warn the King, and reveal Vaisey’s treachery.” Meg leaned towards him, her hands on his thighs, and spoke earnestly. “This is your chance, your one chance, to be rid of him. You can defeat him. Then we won’t be forever looking over our shoulders, wondering if his vengeance is on our heels. Work with Robin….you’ve come this far, don’t lose heart now.”

Guy saw the sense in what she said. But the dread which had dogged him over these past few days, Meg at the sheriff’s mercy, and he himself powerless…..it had reminded him, uncomfortably, of the time he’d handed Marian over to Winchester.

But this gave him pause. He wouldn’t do that, now. He would defy Vaisey, if Meg were at risk….

….and it would achieve nothing. Vaisey would take her anyway; he would win. He always did.

Meg must have suspected the grim turn of his thoughts, because she took hold of his hands.

“I heard what else you said.”

Guy glanced at her.

“What?”

“That you care about me.”

Guy rolled his eyes.

“Of course I do,” he said. Then, a small smirk playing at the edge of his lips: “Even though you are a nuisance.”

“So, why did you leave me?” she asked, ignoring his insult.

“What?” There it was again, one of those mercurial shifts of subject with which she always managed to bamboozle him.

“That morning….after our wedding.”

Guy shifted uncomfortably and didn’t reply. 

“Was it something I did?” Meg asked, small-voiced. Guy snorted; nothing could be further from the truth. But he saw, in her confusion, that Meg believed it. He lifted one hand, toying with a strand of her hair.

“Sweet Meg….” he murmured, “you deserved better. The way I treated you….it was….I should have been more careful.”

“I didn’t think so,” she said softly, colour rising in her cheeks. “I was…satisfied.”

She met his gaze, and Guy found her mix of boldness and embarrassment endearing. He recalled their coupling and wondered if he’d managed to misread the situation. He cupped her cheek, caressing it with his thumb.

“I thought I was too….” words failed him.

“I would have liked you to kiss me a little more, though,” she murmured.

Guy’s thumb stilled then, as he tried to read in those blue orbs if she was saying what he thought she was. But immediately, Meg made sure that he could be left in no doubt.

“Kiss me now,” she said. “Please.”

                                             ————————————————————————————————-

Years of service had trained Thornton to be a light sleeper. He’d not been asleep long when he heard the master return. The evening had been a disjointed one, what with the return earlier of Lady Meg and her insistence, once she had dined and found that the evening was beginning to drag, upon taking out the estate ledger. It wasn’t the first time she’d reviewed it but, like the first time, the exercise had involved her questioning him from time to time. Thornton had made sure he was within earshot in case of her call. But the disruption this had been to his normal routine had meant retiring much later than usual.

He lay now wondering what had woken him. When further listening gave no clues, he sighed. Age meant regular trips to the privy; Thornton rose, donned a robe, and walked out into the hallway. He halted at the sight, in the main hall, of the Lady Meg at the base of the stairs, wearing solely a sheet. Right behind her was the master, clad only in braies. When with deft footwork the master caught the edge of the sheet and it began to slip from the lady’s form, Thornton discreetly turned back to his room, glad that the darkness of the hallway had concealed him from view.

Once there, he chuckled to himself. It was something new, he mused, for the manor to house newly-weds. It had almost happened once before, for the new master; he remembered the hope of that day, one which had ended in despair. That union – Sir Guy and the Lady Marian - would have been doomed, but nonetheless Thornton had seen the day’s outcome degrade the spirit almost beyond what a man could bear.

Not so this time. There had been no punches at the altar, no fleeing bride. Naturally, of course, there had also been none of the same anticipation; Sir Guy had, at best, been resigned to his nuptials.

Thornton had never met the lady in question, until her unscheduled visit on the morning of the wedding. He’d been predisposed to like her; she’d been lovely, well-spoken, and had looked upon the master with a regard which Thornton thought bore some fondness.  
When they’d returned to the manor that night, he’d retired swiftly to allow them privacy. He was sorrowful to realise, therefore, when Sir Guy spent the next few nights at the castle, or sleeping downstairs alone, that there were problems. And then, so soon after their reconciliation, the Lady Meg had been taken away to the castle.

It gladdened his heart, therefore to see what had just transpired. Not wishing to intrude, Thornton waited as long as possible, but he was eventually forced to make the trip to the privy. It was as he was returning that he heard it: the thud of a bed-frame against the wall, and a cry of womanly pleasure.

_Ahhh. So, they’ve discovered the joys of the marriage bed after all._

A match not made by choice, this one. But perhaps, Thornton reflected as he walked along the hallway, the master may just have got it right this time.

The steward returned to his solitary bed then, recalling wistfully the days of his own youth, and his departed wife. His sleep, that night, was reluctant to return.

                                            ————————————————————————————————————  
  
“What about the poor?” Little John stood, his arms folded, wearing that look of his which said he would brook no argument. “What will happen to them if we all go?”

“I’ve told you,” Robin said, his tone exasperated. “We take our food stores to Kirklees. The abbot will make sure it’s distributed.”

“And what about the sheriff’s replacement? We don’t know who he’ll leave as deputy.”

“You can’t protect everyone all of the time, John,” put in Will reasonably. “There’ll always be taxes, whether we’re here or not.”

“But this is what we _do_. The food drops…the people…we need someone to stay here and look after them.”

“Robin needs you,” Much said, indignant. “We all do. We’ll have a much better chance of success if we all go.”

“He’s right,” Marian added. “And as Robin said, we can leave coin with the Abbott too. He’ll dispense it where it’s most needed.”

John paced to the edge of the camp, his back to them all. Robin looked at the broad, reliable shoulders, and knew how much Little John would be missed if they left him behind. Nonetheless, he came to a decision.

“I’ll not make you go,” Robin said quietly. “I can’t force any of you to go. But whatever you do, decide soon. We leave this time next week, and we need to start making our preparations.”

Without turning, Little John thumped his staff against the nearest pole and strode from the camp. Pensive, Robin watched him go.

“Shall I……?” offered Marian.

“Later,” Robin said. “Let him cool off for now. Besides, we have things to do: we need to steal my seal back. Fake or otherwise, I’m not leaving it in Vaisey’s hands. And we must let the sheriff know that it’s our doing; we can’t have suspicion fall on Allan, or Gisborne. So, suggestions?”

These flew to and fro, until Robin was satisfied.

“Right then, we have a plan. Tomorrow, everyone….”

As the gang dispersed, he heard a quiet word from behind him.

“We also need to visit my father, Robin.”

“We’ve talked about this, Marian,” he said resolutely.

Allan had finally brought word about Sir Edward; it hadn’t been kind news. The sheriff, not constrained by decency of any sort, had barred Marian’s father from consecrated ground on the basis that he was a traitor. He’d been interred outside the city walls, in the plot near the gallows where common criminals were given their final rest. No doubt the pain this would cause Marian had been one of the chief reasons for the decision.

“I want to visit the grave,” she said stubbornly; the pain was there, etched into every syllable. “I need to say farewell, Robin.”

He reached for her, his hands running up and down her arms.

“Listen to me…it’s not right, he shouldn’t be there. Wait until we come back,” he urged. “We’ll defeat the sheriff….”

“…..you hope…”

“….and when we return, we’ll have your father reinterred. The abbot will make sure he’s buried on holy ground, where he belongs. Not being dishonoured, as he is now.”

“And if we don’t come back? Have you thought of that?” she snapped.

“Are you afraid?” he asked, his hands coming to rest on her waist.

“Of course I am, aren’t you?”

“Not for myself,” he admitted. “But you’re coming anyway, unless you insist on this. Because we both know that the sheriff will be having the grave watched, just waiting for you to show up.”

“So, I’m to skulk in the forest and never show my face again?”

“If that’s how you must look at it then yes, for now,” Robin replied tersely. 

“You’re impossible,” Marian muttered.

She shook free of his embrace and stalked away, taking the same path John had done.

“Two down,” he muttered to himself.

He cast a glance over his shoulder; Much shrugged in sympathy. Both Will and Djaq looked away, busying themselves with tasks, although not before Robin thought he could detect a small grin on both their faces.

Exasperated, Robin’s gaze went back to Marian. That wasn’t the conversation he’d been hoping to have; there was something else they needed to consider, before the day came to depart.

                                                     ————————————————————————————————

“Get them!” shouted Vaisey, incensed.

Leaning on the balustrade, he watched with a mixture of resignation and disbelief as once again, in what was by now a travesty, Hood and his ragtag gang managed to elude his guards.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he screamed, as the pursuit milled about at the portcullis.

Vaisey looked behind and snatched a mounted spear from the wall display. Intent on murder, he stomped down the steps, muttering to himself. Too long, since he’d hung someone. He was certain that, amongst those fleeing, he had caught a glimpse of a feminine form, of long hair tucked beneath a cape. _Gisborne’s leper….the treacherous Lady Marian…._ Frustrated, he charged down to where the hapless guards were raising he portcullis, slipping underneath, the clasps and chain mail fittings of their uniforms catching on the stakes in their haste.

“After them,” yelled Vaisey, kicking the nearest man scrambling through the gap. “And where is Gisborne?”

“Here, my Lord.”

Vaisey swivelled at the sound of hooves; the master-at-arms paused only long enough for the portcullis to reach sufficient height, before spurring the animal through.

“We’ll get them,” Gisborne flung over his shoulder. “I’ve sent men to all the gates.”

Unconvinced, Vaisey strode out of the bailey and down towards the market square. He spotted two merchants conversing beside their mounts, reins looped casually over their arms.

“I’ll take those,” he drawled to one, tapping his insignia to forestall any protest.

Thus mounted, he gave the animal a swift kick and set off after Gisborne.

“If you want something done….” he muttered.

But the chase had already outdistanced him; as he cleaved the town’s daily rabble of peasants, vendors, pickpockets and louts, scanning alleys on either side for sign of hunters or hunted, the futility of this soured his mood even further. Finally admitting defeat, Vaisey reined in. He glared around, seeking someone – anyone – to bully, and was about to alight upon a woman whose chickens had escaped her stall….surely the disturbance warranted a fine…..when he happened to catch a glimpse, down the alley to his right, of a dark-clad figure disappearing between two buildings.

“Gizzy?” he mumbled.

Curious, the sheriff dismounted, tossing the reins to a stallholder.

“Here…mind this.”

He sidled down the alley, curious as to why his master-at-arms no longer had his own mount. Vaisey found the narrow lane down which he’d lost sight of Gisborne and followed it to its end.

“Hmmph.”

The impact knocked him against the wall, as Gisborne barrelled back around the corner.

“Get off me, you oaf,” he snarled.

Vaisey righted himself. His hand came off the wall slimed with some substance he didn’t care to identify; he glanced at Guy’s leathers, but before he could wipe his hand on them his master-at-arms tugged his jacket out of reach.

“What are you doing here?” demanded Guy.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

A pause; just a heartbeat too long.

“I thought I saw one of them running down here. I came to have a look.”

“What happened to catching them at the gates?” grumbled Vaisey. “Never mind. Just get after them…. I want that nuisance deprived of his head. I want it stuck up over my gates, right where it belongs.”

He reached up, placing a hand behind Gisborne’s neck, drawing him in close to where he knew the man hated the touch of his breath on his face.

“Bring him to me, now there’s a good boy. A last little present, before we leave for the Holy Land. It would make the journey so…” he drew him in closer….”much”….whispering in Gisborne’s ear….”sweeter.”

He smirked as Gisborne angrily shook himself free.

“See to it, Gisborne.” Straightening, Vaisey resumed his normal, brisk tones. “I make a much nicer travelling companion when I’m content.”

Bored with the chase by then, and with harassing Gisborne, Vaisey recovered his mount and returned to the castle. Lost in thought, he rode straight into the bailey, only dimly aware of the merchant to whom the horse belonged trotting along behind to reclaim his mare.

Back in his chambers, the sheriff toyed with the items on his desk, idly lifting and replacing them, one after another. He crossed to the bird cages, and stood there watching one of the warbling creatures, its little throat pulsating in and out, as he tried to put a finger on what was bothering him. There was something about Hood’s foray into the castle today that didn’t add up.

Yes, they’d come for the taxes. Yes, they’d grabbed a fortnight’s worth of takings out from under his nose. Yes, they’d eluded his guards. La-di-da-di-da.

But something wasn’t right.

And then there was Gisborne – again, he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but Guy had been acting oddly in that alley. Had there been a flicker of unease, as he’d reached for his jacket? Guy was fastidious, yes, but that reaction had been too immediate, too defensive.

Vaisey strolled back to his desk. With a sudden compulsion to check that one of his most valued items was secure, he yanked open the lid of the casket.

And stared.

“Guards!” he hollered, spittle flying.

Two men clattered to attention by the desk.

“Who’s been in here?”

The query was met by silence. Vaisey rounded the desk, bringing his face close to the nearest guard’s ear.

“Answer me!” he yelled.

The man flinched.

“My lord…we….they came right to the end of the corridor.”

“Who?”

“Hood’s men. And that Saracen girl.”

“But not Hood himself?”

The guard shook his head.

“And then?” Voice caressingly soft, now.

“Well, we went after them.”

“And left my chambers unattended.”

Incensed, Vaisey backhanded first one and then the other across the face.

“Imbeciles! Do you not understand the concept of a decoy? Get out. Get out of my sight.”

Vaisey began to pace; sometimes this helped his thought processes. What had been in Guy’s jacket? And how had Hood known where to find his seal? Just a lucky guess? It couldn’t be a-Dale double-dealing, he wouldn’t have known where it was kept. Too many questions. It was all too murky, and all happening right on the eve of their departure.

_Well, I might not have Hood, or the seal, but I do still have the pact._

The pact! _Not again_. Blood racing, Vaisey hastened to his safe to check, and found the document still there, and intact. He relaxed, a little, telling himself that Hood had no way of knowing such a document even existed. But the _messiness_ of the day’s events stayed with him. His unease kept him awake late until, finally, he decided upon a course of action.

So simple, really, in the end.

One which would neatly tie up any loose ends that might prevent his mission in the Holy Land – so crucial, this time – from becoming a success.

                                             ——————————————————————————————————

They’d finally managed to have that conversation Robin had been wanting to have, as they took a cart-load of supplies to the abbey - once Little John had agreed to travel with them to the Holy Land.

“But Robin….” Marian had hesitated, torn – he surmised – between her own desires, and what she thought he wanted. “Surely you’d prefer the king to marry us?”

“No.” He’d shaken his head. “It was my duty to him that kept us apart. Besides, I’d rather we were wed here, in Sherwood, than in some forsaken place I’d hoped never to set foot again.”

“So, you’ll make an honest woman of me after all?”

“I will, my love.”

But before he had the words fully out, Marian had flung her arms around his neck and, laughing, he had kissed her, and had kept on kissing her, until the cart veering to the edge of the road reminded them both that they had a job to do. 

So here they were, today, at Edwinstowe. He’d always thought he and Marian would one day marry at Locksley, and had needed to smother the flare of resentment this produced that Gisborne had robbed him of that chance. But as he waited in the arched doorway of the church, Robin knew he didn’t really care where it took place. What mattered most was that finally, here, they were to be wed.

Marian walked towards him then, holding Little John’s arm – a vision in soft blue, with a floral crown, and the light shimmering like a benediction on her veil – and as she joined him, Robin took her hands. They exchanged a tender, private smile. The priest began, intoning lengthy passages of Latin during which Robin glimpsed Much fidgeting. Afterwards came those phrases which Robin had requested, ones which he’d pronounced himself not long ago for John of York and his bride. Here, now, Robin felt their meaning profoundly…. _do you, Robin of Locksley, promise to protect and honour this woman as long as you both shall live…._

….”with my bow, my blade, and my life,” he added fiercely, raising one hand to cup Marian’s face, well aware that this idyll, this moment of snatched happiness, was on the eve of a rigorous journey – one which would end in a land at war, where they would face treachery, and with enemies awaiting them at every turn.

Afterwards, through a gauntlet of smiles and hugs and flowers, they repaired to the green. Vines entwined with flowers hung between the trees. Tables had been laid out at the base of its gentle slope, draped in white cloths and laden for the feast. Robin noticed tiny figurines, likenesses of both himself and Marian, propped against the centrepieces. Later, when he thought no one watching, he picked one up. He ran his thumb over the brown leather cape; it had a tiny belt, and a bow of string slung across its shoulder. Then he became aware of Much, standing by his shoulder.

“Surely I’m better looking than this?” he quipped. “Aren’t I?”

“You don’t fool me,” Much replied. “You love it. And you love them.”

Robin didn’t answer immediately. The children of the village – released now from their parents’ strictures about good behaviour during the ceremony – ran shrieking and laughing, weaving between tables and the nearby oaks. Folk talked, danced, ate, laughed.

“Just look at them, Much,” he said quietly. “John’s right. They need moments like this…the rest of their lives they spend being oppressed and bullied and taxed almost to death.”

“That’s why they love you. And us too, at least I think they do. A little. We give them hope. And food, and money.” Then he added practically, “But no one can feast all of the time. Mind you, if I could….”

Robin laughed, landing an arm on his friend’s shoulders.

“I know! If you could, you would dine on nought but the finest, day in and day out.”

“I do like food, there’s no denying,” humphed Much. “And there’s nothing wrong with that, not when we go without so often. It’s the same for anything though, isn’t it, we always want what we can’t have….”

“Not in every case, my friend.”

Robin eyes had fallen on Marian. She was watching the children play, a pensive expression on her face. Much caught the direction of his gaze.

“Go on then,” he urged. “It is your wedding day, after all.”

And one which was nearing its end. 

They left on horseback, to travel a distance they could have done on foot were it not for Marian’s finery. They’d been granted use of the gatehouse lodge at Thorpe Manor, the gatekeeper sent elsewhere for the night under some pretext. Or, Robin suspected, simply removed with the persuasion of enough coin.

The gatehouse lay where a long avenue of Spanish chestnuts began. The same hands which had readied the ceremony and the feast were evident here too, in candles, and greenery, and linens finer than the humble abode warranted. Although they noticed none of this in detail until much later. Until now, as they sat unclothed on the bed, facing each other.

“So, what do we do now, Robin of Locksley? Champion of the poor….” She placed a soft kiss against his cheek. “Keeper of my heart….”

…another kiss, pressed to his lips this time, while her fingertips curled about his neck. It warmed him, Marian’s willingness to be with him; it had been that way since their first time beneath the oak. He began stroking her outer thigh; her legs were drawn up, leaning against him.

“What’s our plan?” she went on, despite the distraction.

“To have no plan,” he murmured. “We won’t think beyond tonight, or about anything except us.”

He felt her tense a little. Marian drew back, leaning against the arm he’d placed around her shoulders.

“Are we doing the right thing?” she asked him, her eyes troubled.

“What, second thoughts already?” he teased.

“Be serious,” she chided. “You know what I mean. This – us – it seems….”

She paused, gathering her thoughts.

“For us to be this happy, this fortunate, when others….”

“Marian – listen to me.” He spoke firmly. “There is nothing safe on this earth. No day goes by that one of us might not leave it. And as long as it doesn’t prevent us from doing what we do – and why would it? – I don’t see why we can’t try and have what the lowliest of the lowborn, from peasant to king, seek to have…to be with the one they love.”

“I know you’re right.” She sighed; it ended a little raggedly, as his hand moved, nudging her legs apart; he began softly stroking. “But we have….so much….to do…..”

He silenced her doubts with a kiss.

“And we will do it together,” he said.

His finger swirled, gently, and then slid inside:

“It’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?” he said huskily. “What we both wanted.”

Marian groaned. Whether it was from the double meaning, or the movements of his hand, he wasn’t sure and didn’t much care, as quite soon, her fingertips digging into his shoulder….. _Robin, ohhh - Robin_ ….her hair tickling his chest, she collapsed against him.

The long moment of quiet as she stayed there. Her face, very near his lap. Robin held his breath, almost without realising. Of course, his beautiful Marian, bold and curious in this as in all things…she lowered herself, her chestnut locks tumbling across his belly, as for the first time she closed her lips ever so sweetly around him. He was swiftly lost beneath her ministrations.

Afterwards, as he tenderly stroked her hair, they lay listening to a nightingale in the forest. A comforting sound. A reminder that, at least for this night, and a few more, they slept safely in the bosom of Sherwood.

Robin held her close, trying to obey his own injunction not to think beyond that night. But thoughts of the coming journey wouldn’t leave him alone. He knew only too well the type of hell which awaited them in the Holy Land, a place to which nothing but duty – arrayed in its plainest and most austere robes – could ever have induced him to return.

                                                        ——————————————————————————————

Vaisey had slipped it into the conversation quite casually, amidst a host of other instructions for the journey.

“Oh, and bring your lady wife.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Bring Lady Gisborne. We wouldn’t want you to be lonely now, would we?”

Guy sat again now on the homebound road at night, wondering what arguments he could marshal which, even at this late stage, might persuade Meg to leave Nottingham with him. But nothing new occurred; he suspected that, even if he resorted to pleas, these would earn him a tender regard but no result.

He’d been mulling over what might have led Vaisey to such a decision, and could only believe it was their encounter in the alley the day that Robin had retrieved his seal. _Damn his balls._ He’d told Guy nothing of their intentions, no doubt thinking too much knowledge could be a bad thing. But the outcome had been a disaster.

Guy had ridden out knowing his task hopeless: he must let the outlaws escape, while seeming to do all he could to affect their capture. He’d not gone far when Hood had beckoned to him from an alley. The lane was narrow; Guy had tethered his mount and followed. He recognised the courtyard as the one where he’d discovered Sir Edward. This time, too, the place was deserted, but instead of a corpse he saw a scrap of parchment pinned by one of Robin’s arrows to the side of the well.

_Salah ve Bazri St, blue door_

Nothing else. Guy surmised that, in the wake of Meg’s arrest and now this theft, Robin had correctly guessed there would be no further opportunities to meet. This was no doubt his contact point in Acre. The knowledge of where this was all going made him shaky; he took a moment to collect himself, shoving the bit of parchment into his jacket. He hastened back the way he’d come, only to run straight into the sheriff – _has he followed me? What’s he doing there?_

Nerves had made him skittish; Vaisey, who noticed everything, had noticed. So now, here he was. Caught, again, in a trap. Only this time, it was Meg who was caught too.

He spurred home. He would still try.

“No. We’ve talked about this before,” she said. “We’ve no choice.”

“But we do have a choice Meg,” he rumbled. “Not much of one, I agree but…”

“Shhh.” She closed her hands over his. “No more.”

And so it was that three days later they were both travelling south in the sheriff’s carriage, bound for Portsmouth, and whatever else awaited them beyond.  
  
  



	19. Captives

It would be a miracle, Guy thought, if his plan worked.

He’d checked the house in Salah ve Bazri St the day after they arrived, only to find no outlaws there. Alarmed by this, he’d kept an eye out for a go-between, choosing a lad he’d noticed selling dates on their street corner, fixing sandals, hailing camel or horse traders to offer his services – anything, in fact, that would earn him a bit of coin. A lad that enterprising wasn’t likely to turn Guy’s away, not when all he had to do to earn it was to keep an eye on the house and report back when the newcomers arrived.

“Strangers” had been the one word which had made his eyes light up with recognition. Guy hadn’t bothered to try and explain where, he’d simply told Vaisey one day that he was going out and had led the boy to the address which Robin had left for him at the well, that piece of parchment now long destroyed.

This was five days earlier; Guy was beginning now to buckle under the strain.

“They left before us,” he reiterated to Meg, his voice barely above a whisper as he paced their bedchamber. “Anything could have happened. You saw it happen with us, supply mules stolen overland, random detours to collect cargo….”

“They’ll be here,” soothed Meg. “I’m sure of it. Robin has done the journey before, he’ll know what to do.”

“Not everything will be within his control. And if they don’t get here soon…..”

Guy stopped pacing. He swiped a hand through his hair, aware of the enormity of the situation he faced. Vaisey had already been to see King Richard, under the pretext of delivering additional taxes Nottingham had gathered. Guy had been left behind without explanation. He knew, of course, that it was because Vaisey had also been delivering the false pact; he couldn’t then roll into the king’s camp with a “traitor” in tow, not without having him detained on the spot. Which wouldn’t have suited Vaisey’s purposes at all; oh no, Guy sneered, not when Vaisey had bigger things in store for him.

So, the next day, when he saw the sign scratched on the outer wall - one which he had checked for several times a day - it was all he could do to wait for nightfall in order to slip out undetected and then make his way to the house with the blue door.

It was as well he’d waited. After the evening meal - as they all languished in the heat, Vaisey picking his teeth with sharpened bone - a knock came at the door. The porter entered, admitting a veiled serving girl. She bowed her head, awaiting instruction.

“Yes? Report?” commanded Vaisey.

“My master has guests, from your land.”

“He does, does he? How many? Describe them to me.”

From the girl’s halting description, Guy realised at the same time as the sheriff that this was Robin and his gang. _I needn’t have bothered with my own spy,_ he thought ironically.

“But how can that be?” Vaisey snapped. “How can Hood have known we were here?”

Guy swallowed, keeping his face impassive; it was vital he reveal nothing. The sheriff’s gaze swung towards him, considering.

“You!” From the corner of his eye he saw Meg startle; Guy sent her a swift glance of caution. But the sheriff’s ire was directed elsewhere, at Allan, who was at that moment trying to slink out of the room unnoticed. “Stop him!”

Nasir’s hulking companion, Karim, stepped in front of the door, blocking Allan’s exit.

“Look, don’t blame me,” wheedled Allan. “I didn’t do it. I don’t know how he came to be here.”

The sheriff rose and stalked across to him.

“Then you were leaving because?” he purred.

“I knew you’d blame me, didn’t wanna stick around for that.”

Guy shook his head; defiance never helped.

“Well, dear boy, I’ve no one else to blame. I should have known, our little defector was a spy all along.”

Vaisey spoke over his shoulder to Nasir’s servant:

“Take him to the cellar, lock him up.”

Then, to Allan, his tone vicious: “Make no mistake, the only reason I don’t skewer you this minute is because you might be useful to me, if I need leverage with Hood. Still, there’s no reason you can’t enjoy a little Saracen hospitality while you’re down there. I hear they can be quite… creative. Hood, after all, doesn’t need you in one piece. You could be a little bit _broken_.”

“M’lord, I don’t think…..” Guy tried to keep his voice even, dismayed at the turn of events.

“Gisborne, that’s right, you don’t think….”

“I was going to say, Hood has people everywhere. It may not have been Allan.”

“Of course he has people everywhere, you idiot. _He has them right under our very noses._ He always has.” Vaisey snarled. Then to the servant: “Go on, take him. I’ll be along shortly.”

Once Allan had been hauled away, Vaisey paced back and forth across the courtyard, hands knit behind his back.

“Of course,” he muttered, “this must be dealt with. We cannot allow Locksley to reach the king – he has the pact.”

He waved impatiently at Karim.

“See to it. Take some men, the girl can let you in. Get me that pact and kill Hood – kill all of them. Gisborne, go with them.”

This done, Vaisey hastened to the cellar.

“I’ll take the girl back and meet you there,” Guy told the Saracen who, with a curt nod, departed.

Already, ghastly cries rose from downstairs.

“Wait there,” he instructed the girl

Meg was trembling; he took her arm and led her to their room.

“We must help Allan,” she said urgently. “If the sheriff’s expecting you to kill Robin, he has no reason to keep Allan alive.”

“Shhh.” Guy placed a gloved fingertip over her lips. “The walls here have ears.”

He stared at Meg, wondering if she was right. But the sounds from the cellar gave the lie to their fears.

“He’ll want to be sure,” Guy said, hoping he was right. “Until he has the pact back, and word Robin’s dead, he won’t want to waste any advantage he might have.”

Surely his years with Vaisey had given him that much understanding of the man?

In her distress, Meg’s fingers ghosted across his sleeve, but Guy’s racing thoughts already had him sped half across the city, the very small window he had – and at such great risk – of warning Robin before Karim arrived, and that with Vaisey’s spy in his charge.

Madness. It was madness, the whole thing.

Hood here less than a day and already things were out of control, Vaisey tossing them all up like dice, with no idea where they might land.  


Guy didn’t have the words in him, or the time to find them, with which to comfort Meg. He shook free and strode out, barking at the girl to follow.

                                                   —————————————————————————————

The silence was unbearable. It had been broken too often and too hideously during the rest of the evening. Now all Meg could do was wonder what suffering lay in the cellar below, as she slumped back on the bed and fanned herself with a rudimentary fan.

Their room off the courtyard was basic: rough-daubed white walls, a barred window, two single cots with brown-striped coverlets. Vaisey had taken the room next to them.

It had been the same throughout the journey, both on board ship, and during their passage overland. They had existed in the same cloying space as Vaisey, day and night. On occasions when they’d been granted privacy, like here, it was as if the sheriff’s proximity seeped through the very walls, inhibiting their speech and actions. Guy had become a different man, tense, harsh-spoken. Whatever brief idyll of tenderness and passion they’d inhabited before leaving Nottingham had withered, drying up beneath the intrusive gaze of the sheriff like those moisture-starved plants which clung to the cracks of walls and pavements.

And now this.

Once, when she was younger, wolves had plagued the Bennett estate. Traps had been laid. Meg remembered hearing, one night, a keening howl, unearthly in timbre. Their pet hound, missing. Her father, lifting a spear from the weapons rack and heading out into the night.

“It’s for the best,” her mother had tried to reassure, stroking her hair.

“But we should _do_ something. We must.”

With a child’s desperation she’d repeated this over and over, Meg remembered. But they hadn’t. And eventually her father had returned, wordlessly replacing his spear in the rack.

Now her fan’s motion slowed, and gradually ceased. Meg stared at a pitted seam in the wall, her thoughts churning. But she knew that if she allowed herself to think too long she would talk herself out of it, just as long ago she’d left a pet to the harsh mercy of her father’s spear.

There would be no mercy for Allan.

Meg slipped out of the room, giving her eyes a moment to adjust. She stopped by the sheriff’s door, listening, only moving on once she’d assured herself that she could hear his rhythmic snores. She checked the courtyard, finding it empty; Nasir’s men must either have joined the attack on the gang or else bedded down on the roof, trying to milk whatever coolness they could from a night devoid of it.

Moving stealthily, Meg made her way to the cellar. No guard; why would there be? No one else knew they were here. She paused, again listening, hoping for some sound of movement beyond the door, for any indication that Allan had survived his ordeal. What state would he be in? Would she be able to free him? Would……

Meg shook her head robustly, opened the door, and slipped into the room. It could have been any ordinary room – a figure humped there on the cot, pallid light from the window falling across its occupant – were it not for the heavy chain that shackled him to the wall, and an odour that she couldn’t quite place. Brazier coals gleamed dully; the room was so stuffy it was difficult to breathe. A red-tipped poker, resting on the edge, and suddenly Meg knew what the smell was. Gagging, she struggled not to retch. 

“Blimey. Aren’t I the one should be sick?” Allan said weakly.

He didn’t move; Meg could hardly hear him, his voice muffled. He was sitting awkwardly, hunched over like an injured animal. She could just discern, when he lifted his head, the pain-filled eyes, the sweat-streaked hair.

She knelt by him, hands fluttering helplessly, wanting to offer comfort but afraid to handle and thus hurt. 

“Can you walk?” she whispered.

A strange rasp, which Meg recognised as an attempted laugh.

“Not with this bloody great thing I can’t.” He lifted his shackled wrist, and Meg cast her eyes about for the key. “Over there. Hook.”

Meg saw where the key was hung, on an iron hook by the door. Imbued with purpose, she lifted it and returned to Allan. He flinched as she reached for the lock.

“Careful. They broke two of my fingers.”

Meg hissed in outrage. She undid the lock and lifted it away, careful to avoid knocking his hand. 

“Can you stand?”

In answer, Allan swung his feet off the cot. He sat, gathering himself for the next move. Slowly, steadily, Meg was able to help him to the door. Nothing else appeared to be broken, but he moved gingerly, careful of injuries she could only guess at. They lent his movements all the awkwardness of a Yuletide puppet. 

Palms clammy with fear – and her heart skittering like a startled fawn – Meg helped him along the passage, and up to the door leading outside.

“Where will you go?” she whispered.

“Don’t worry about me, luv,” Allan replied. “I’ve a thief’s luck.”

This bravado brought tears to her eyes. He stumbled over the threshold and didn’t look back – a measure of his true state. The shadows quickly swallowed him. Meg winced at the sound as she pushed the door closed, hardly able to believe she’d been successful. Turning, she crossed the courtyard swiftly, silently. All seemed quiet; no alarm sounded, in fact there were no sounds at all.

She paused, a hand on the door latch.

Not even snores.

A hand shot out of the dark, grabbing her hair. Vaisey’s face loomed close and the hand in her hair twisted, painfully.

“What’s the matter, Lady Gisborne? Couldn’t sleep?”

Meg whimpered, as much in fear as in pain.

“I was too hot,” she replied, biting her lip against the discomfort. “I needed some air.”

“Is that all? I’m not sure I believe you, my dear – shall we go see?”

Without releasing his grip on her hair, Vaisey turned and started for the cellar, pulling her along behind him.

The empty cellar condemned her.

“Oh dear,” the sheriff drawled. “Mistake, missy.”

He strode to the door.

“Men....down here, now….”

Then, turning back into the room, he approached Meg.

“A big, _big_ mistake.”

                                           —————————————————————————————————

Shadows unfurled like great vultures from against the wall – Karim and his men, there ahead of them. Guy gripped his sword hilt, rivulets of sweat running down his spine. He had no idea what to do next.

Karim spoke in Arabic to the girl, then motioned them all to stand out of the line of sight as she knocked on the door, and as the porter opened the viewing portal. The girl and he exchanged a few quiet words, and then the portal slid closed as the bar was lifted clear on the far side of the door.

The porter had moments to live. A blade whispered across his abdomen, a second to the throat stifled his cry. The raiders, himself amongst them, poured in. Stealthy, black-clad figures fanned across the room, silent, malevolent. Guy could hear pigeons cooing in their niches; nearby a fountain played softly. He moved nearest the wall; feeling helpless, he flattened himself against it. Here he was, caught in the middle – if Hood’s gang saw him with the Saracens, they’d assume the worst. Yet he couldn’t warn them, not now, because if he did word of it would reach Vaisey.

Unless every man in the raiding party perished.

That thought, he found, troubled him not at all. He glanced speculatively at the man nearest him. The rest of the attackers were ahead; Guy needed no further encouragement to step out from the wall and, drawing his dagger, he struck a blow, the thrust deep and forceful enough to kill. The man folded, dying as silently as he’d moved. Guy stepped away from the corpse, glancing about to make sure he’d been undetected.

The spy – the girl – was watching from the corridor. She turned and fled, her scarves a-flurry over her shoulder. Guy pursued, catching up with her in a tiny courtyard; throwing his weight onto her from behind, they tumbled into the dust. He pinned her flailing arms before she could reach for the blade he was sure would be hidden in the folds of her garment. Wrenching a scarf free, he looped it about her neck, and held it there. Tightly.

But with no extra pressure. Guy waited while the girl stilled.

“Do…not…scream,” he hissed in her ear.

Then he slid the scarf free and tied her wrists behind her back. With one of his daggers, he sliced off a strip which he tied about her head as a gag. It was as he lifted his weight, and was hauling his captive to her feet, that a door beside them opened. In the framing lamplight, he recognised Djaq.

“Who’s there? What’s going on?”

“A raid – warn the others. Go!”

Djaq disappeared, swift and silent. Guy hesitated. Beyond the door through which Djaq had come he could see a tiny room cluttered with pigeon-handling accessories: sacks of grain, nesting straw, glazed food and water trays, wire grates, and portable cages. Deferring what needed to be done – she was in Vaisey’s service after all, as much a danger to him as the rest of the party – Guy dragged the serving girl into the room. With his boot he crushed one of the cages and tore the binding free, using this rope to secure the girl to the leg of a low bench which ran along one wall. This done, he clambered up and stole back towards the central chamber.

All seemed unnaturally silent. Guy wondered if the warning had come too late, if Djaq had been unsuccessful and already the outlaws lay slaughtered throughout the house. His blood thrumming, Guy crept through the room, listening for sounds of combat. His boot connected with a prone figure and he recognised the man he’d killed. Only upon closer look, his man was nearer the wall; this corpse lay by a low table…..Djaq’s work, he guessed, coming up on them from behind.

Two down.

Shouts, now, and the scrape and strike of blades. Fighting surged out of the corridors, the raiders being pushed into the central courtyard. In the dark and the confusion it was hard to tell friend from foe, though Guy recognised Karim’s roving bulk as he sought to strike wherever resistance was weakest. His sight adjusting, Guy saw John hemmed in by two attackers, without enough space to wield his staff. Guy drew and charged, but a lithe figure was there before him. Catapulting out of nowhere, she delivered a kick to the head which staggered Karim. Before the big man could regain his balance Guy lunged in, driving a blade through his gut.

He yanked it out, blood-soiled, and looked up, expecting censure. But Marian gave a small, curt nod; she understood.

Karim’s men saw that they’d been betrayed.

As the melee swirled across the courtyard they took to him, one by one. If he felled a man, another stepped in. A skilled swordsman – he had to be, he lived by the sword – Guy still found their ferocity draining. Blood dripped down the inside of his sleeve. A parry, miscalculated: locked blades, which as the Saracen’s slid free had caught his arm. He had no way of knowing the depth of the wound, and it didn’t matter. You fought on, or you fell. Simple.

Two came for him at once, and Hood’s Saracen saw what was happening.

“Alright?” she asked, appearing beside him.

Shielding his left side, both hands on her raised blade, Djaq glanced at his arm, at the torn leather. The Saracen stayed beside him, blades swiping and hacking in unison. When the next man fell, Guy risked a glance around. Four raiders left.

Five, if you counted the one who, despite his wounds, had raised himself enough to crawl into the vestibule and was now making unsteady progress on his feet towards the door.

“Stop him,” Guy yelled to Much, who was nearest.

But the manservant had a raider’s blade to fend and ignored him. Guy launched himself across the courtyard, forgetting he was a marked man.

_Cowards_ was his first thought, as a blow from behind sent him sprawling. _They’ll do it while I’m down_.

He rolled over and saw the point of a blade protruding from a lattice screen. The Saracen, who’d landed beside him when she knocked him down, leapt up; she stabbed back through the screen, but the raider wielding the sword, Guy saw, was already on the ground, felled by Robin. Guy scrambled up, gave a grunt of thanks, and resumed his pursuit.

It was unnecessary: the older man, Bassam, stood over the body of the porter which still lay near the door.

“He’d been with me since I was a boy,” Bassam said, his voice soft as rain on a grave. “It was the least I could do.”

The pigeon-handler walked away, not deigning to look at the man he’d killed. Satisfied that the raider was dead – Bassam’s dagger stuck in his chest – Guy returned to the courtyard. But, severely outnumbered, by now the last of Karim’s men had been subdued. Guy checked they were all dead, that for whatever namby-pamby reason Hood hadn’t decided to show a captive mercy. 

The outlaws began dragging corpses away. Djaq was beside him then, lifting his arm and assessing the damage.

“It’s nothing.” Guy shrugged her off. “Just a scratch.”

“Men,” tssked Djaq. “I suppose those leathers must be good for something.”

He didn’t mention that it felt like fire, even though the bleeding had stopped.

“Gisborne.” Guy swung round; Robin stood a few paces away, regarding him closely.

“About time you got here,” grumbled Guy.

“Hello to you too.” A grin ghosted across Robin’s face. Then: “Tell us what happened. How did the sheriff know we’re here?”

Guy remembered then, the girl in the store-room.

“What is it?” Robin asked.

“The sheriff has a spy in the house. I locked her in the store-room.” He looked down at his sword, wearied by the thought his night’s work mightn’t be done yet. “She saw me kill one of them.”

“Ah.”

“I might be able to solve that problem.” They hadn’t noticed Bassam enter. “Leave it to me.”

He left again immediately, and while the gang finished removing the bodies Guy sank onto the step separating the courtyard from the interior. Robin followed suit.

“So….the girl told Vaisey,” Robin continued.

“Worse than that. He thinks it was Allan. He’s been torturing him ever since word came.”

Robin knit his fingers, tapping them against his mouth. He exhaled heavily.

“Can we get him out?” he asked at length.

“I don’t see how.”

“Tell me where you’re staying and perhaps…”

“You’d never get in. Vaisey has allies here, they’re coming and going all the time.”

“Try me,” Robin said.

“Anyway, you don’t have time. This lot were sent to get the pact off you. They failed, so the sheriff will want to act before you can get it to the king. Vaisey knows he must be above suspicion. Which he won’t be, if Richard sees the pact.”

Robin gazed back at him, thinking.

“Let’s say you’re right – you know him better than I do – what’s his plan?”

“Whichever night it’s to be, his allies will clear part of the perimeter of guards. He’s given me a crusader’s uniform, I’m to slip into the camp and make my way to the king’s tent.”

“We know he has a man on the inside – you don’t know who this is yet?” Guy shook his head. “So we can assume that, by the time you get there, the deed will have already been done. This man, whoever he is, will sound the alarm, and you will take the blame.”

“So the only way we can protect the king is if you stay with him.” Guy had given this plenty of thought during their days of waiting. “You mustn’t be seen by anyone else, though. If the traitor knows you’re there, he won’t act.”

“Agreed.” Robin flattened his palms on his knees. 

“And Allan?” he asked quietly.

They locked eyes; Guy knew he couldn’t take any more risks by releasing Allan, or by trying to intervene.

“I’ll look for opportunity,” he said. “But I’m not hopeful.”

“And if we mount a rescue, Vaisey will know he has a spy. That only leaves you.”

“Or Meg.”

“Meg? What’s she doing here?”

“After your stunt with the seal, he caught me in the alley. He’s not entirely sure of me anymore, so he had Meg come along.”

“That’s….unfortunate. Then Allan…. ” Robin drummed his fingers. “I’ll think of something. But for now, you’d better get back.”

“How am I going to explain this?” Guy waved a gloved hand at the courtyard. “Being the only one to survive.”

Robin was silent, thinking.

“How did you get in?” he asked.

“The porter recognised the girl. I tried to get here before them, with her. She was to let them in. I planned to warn you, but they got here first.”

“There’s your answer, then,” said Robin. “Tell Vaisey they were inside by the time you arrived.”

By now the rest of the outlaws had gathered, listening.

“How?”

Robin shrugged.

“You don’t know. Just say they were already in, that the porter was already dead.”

“Your arm,” interrupted Djaq. “It should be seen to. Let me…”

Guy shook her off.

“What, so the sheriff will see how you treat all your enemies?” sneered Guy.

The carpenter looked stormy.

“You know she saved your life just now? Show a little respect.”

“Enough, Will,” Robin put in. “He’s right, it would just cause more suspicion. Can you give him something, Djaq, so that Meg can tend to it later?”

Djaq left, back moments later with a phial of ointment.

“This will help prevent infection,” she said.

Guy palmed it, shoving it into his jacket.

“You did save my life,” he said gruffly.

“We all make mistakes,” the Saracen replied. “Don’t make me do it again.”

Not sure how to respond to that – and even less sure if she was jesting or not – Guy took his leave.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	20. Plans

The trickster. The traitor. The silver-tongued rogue, always ready with a line and a laugh. The realist, always able to spot hogwash when he heard it, as ready as not to call folk out on it. Robin, too, on occasion.

_I’m not being funny, but…._

Perhaps, because of the face he showed to the world, folk imagined he didn’t think deeply about things. But he thought plenty. Oh yes. Like now, as Allan sat huddled against the outer wall. He knew he should scarper, but the energy required to do that, at this particular moment, escaped him.

So, he was thinking. Watching a skinny cat amble along the opposite wall, tail flicking, as it hunted. Thinking of the day he’d almost left for Scarborough, when he’d had the chance, until Will had turned them both around. Until one of them had done the honourable thing.

It would have been _honourable_ , too, to refuse Guy’s deal back when it was offered to him. Allan lifted his hand, looking at it; the skill with which these people inflicted pain made Guy’s beatings seem tender by comparison. Starting to feel dizzy again he had to lean forward, tipping his head between his knees.

He wouldn’t kid himself: Guy would have done what was needed. He’d hurt that day too. A lot. And if this was where _honourable_ would have led, then what other choice had he had, really?

It was only the sheriff’s warped sense of humour which had saved him from worse today; Vaisey had decided it would be _amusing_ , once Guy returned, to have him take over the task. But for that, they’d have moved on to his right hand next. And this would have taken everything from him. His livelihood lay in his hands, in his quick-fingered skills in a crowd or a tavern, in his skill with the swords when a fight came to them. Take that away from him – if he could no longer function as thief or outlaw – what was left? He had precious little enough as it was.

Cradling his injured hand, his thoughts circled back, back. Fleeing to Scarborough. Giving Guy the deal he offered. Not ‘fessing up when Robin gave him the chance.

Choices.

They circled back further. An unjust penalty, interrupted, before his fingers could be taken from him. The day when he’d come the closest he ever had to hanging – a miracle, really, considering the life he’d led ….

…and an arrow severing a rope – a memory he shuddered to recall. Far worse, that, than any stranglehold in a brawl, where at least you had the chance to fight your way out. Dangling in a noose it was death grasping at your throat, and you knew it wasn’t going to let you go.

Only that day, with a little help, it had. And that very same arrow had sent the archer who aimed it to the sanctuary of the forest - landless, stripped of his titles, an outlaw.

Not only his own choices, then.

There was an irony somewhere there, buried so deep that he lacked the strength to find it. Perhaps the lesson was simply that life was chaotic and tangled and messy, and if you were one of the lucky ones you survived it and if you weren’t, then you ended up like Tom. Was he, Allan a-Dale, one of the lucky ones? Right at that moment, sitting in a stinking alley, pain washing through him in waves, he found that hard to believe.

_Ask me again_ , he said to himself, _if I survive this madness._

He tilted his head back against the wall. _I need Djaq to patch me up_.

He’d thought about that, too. Quite a lot.

How love trumps like. How steady and dependable trumps wayward and unreliable. Sometimes, though, he just wished they’d get on with it, if they were ever going to. It would save him the occasional sliver of hope which, like fleas on a cur, might slip in unnoticed and which, once there, was devilish hard to get rid of.

Trying to summon the strength to move, Allan suddenly became aware of voices. He was by a window and realised – as he heard the sheriff’s familiar drawl - that he was outside the cellar. He shuffled a fraction closer, straining to hear.

“…and did Guy know what you were doing? I suppose not, as I sent him to get the pact. Though he will probably fail me in that as he does everything else. Which is why I brought you along. And with this stunt, you’ve made it all so much simpler for me.”

Allan recognised the danger to Meg. He wished he had the strength to do something about it but as it was, all he could do was listen and try to glean what information he could.

“….so to make sure your beloved doesn’t disappoint me again, in any of the tasks I have for him, I’m going to put you away somewhere for safekeeping,” the sheriff continued. “Although, maybe not so safe, if he fails me.”

“Lord sheriff, please let me stay here with….”

“Stop your mewling, girl. It’s decided. My friend here will take you on a little journey.”

Allan could hear the sounds of a struggle, and raised above it Vaisey’s voice:

“It doesn’t take two of you. You, get after a-Dale, I want him back. I haven’t finished with him.”

Cursing his condition, Allan hauled himself around the corner out of sight. He tripped on something. Denied the normal reflex of flinging out a hand, Allan stumbled, landing awkwardly on a shape that moved and dug against his branded side with a hard elbow. Tears of fresh pain chased down the runnels left by others in the sweat on his face. A mumbled string of Arabic; a shove…..

“Wait…you….” As the shape resolved itself into a street waif, and one about to flee, Allan recognised his chance.

He tugged awkwardly at his belt pouch, finding a coin. He held it out, nodding for the lad to take it. Then, with his good hand, he indicated the boy’s head covering. Clearly anxious to maximise his good fortune and be gone, the lad shed the garment and handed it over. But before he could disappear, Allan clutched his sleeve, motioning for him to wait as he produced a second coin.

Keeping hold of the sleeve, he took a quick look around the corner and saw two dark shapes – one feminine – almost at the end of the alley.

“You – follow.” He pointed, making sure the boy saw Meg and her captor. They were at the corner, about to turn out of sight. “Go, quick.”

The boy loped off, his coins tucked securely away. Allan muttered curses, fumbling with the head covering, slinking back to the spot the boy had vacated and slumping down. He draped the garment so that it hid the burns and rips and bloodstains on his clothes and kept his head low as a second man left the dwelling and passed by, seeking him.

As plans went, Allan realised this one stank. A nameless stray, one who probably spoke no word of English, and who had no way of returning information to him. All he’d achieved, he thought bitterly, was to waste two perfectly good coins.

Best now to find Robin – he had the address, had been there once for Guy to check if the gang had arrived. Robin would know what to do.

Keeping to the walls, Allan started to make his way through the darkened city. He knew the danger he was in; predators always picked on the weak and the vulnerable. So when someone bumped into him, making his eyes water and his wounds throb, Allan thought the game was up.

“You!” uttered Guy. “How did you get out?”

Allan could have wept with relief.

“Meg.”

“What?” Guy growled.

“She’s been taken. Vaisey sent Nasir off with her somewhere.”

Guy smacked the wall beside him.

“What was she thinking?”

“She was thinking of me. Which was more than you were.” He was lightheaded, and bold with it.

“Where did they go?” demanded Guy.

“How should I know? I was in no state to follow. I sent a boy after them, but a waste of time that, he’ll not know who to give his report to if he ever comes back.”

Guy leaned a hand against the wall, gazing in silence up the street but not, Allan suspected, aware even of the nose on his face. He slumped against the wall himself, shattered by fatigue and pain.

It made Guy suddenly aware of his condition.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you to Robin. We need to figure out what to do next.”

Which Allan didn’t much care about; he’d done all that he could.

All he cared about now, Allan discovered, as he lay on a pallet beneath Djaq’s ministering hands, with the scent of ground herbs in his nostrils and the taste of a brew on his lips, was that he was back. And, for the moment, safe.

For now, he would sleep, and mend, and if he must worry about the rest of it, then later would be soon enough for that.

_Maybe I am one of the lucky ones._

Djaq held his uninjured hand as he sank, finally, into sleep, lulled by the tincture which had once calmed the rogue Crusader Harold.

_It does taste of strawberries._ He had meant to tell Djaq, but the words slipped away from him, and with them the pain.

                                                       -----------------------------------------------------------

Weary, Guy braced his hands against the wall, head drooping between his arms. To either side of him, pigeons cooed in their niches. The soliloquy of the fountain brought the thought if not the fact of coolness. After a few moments, he heard Robin returning, accompanied by his host.

“I’ve dealt with the girl,” said Bassam, in accented but well-spoken English. “She will work for us now. I know the girl’s family, I sent my sons to detain her two brothers.”

“So, we play nasty as well?” Guy questioned.

“No need,” answered Bassam. “I told her that if she doesn’t co-operate, they will be handed over to your king.”

“Richard won’t be too kindly disposed,” added Robin, “if he learns their sister has been conspiring with his enemies to kill him.”

“So what now?”

“Please, sit.” Bassam waved them to the cushions around a low table, but declined to join them.

Left alone, Guy gripped the edge of the table, trying to direct his thoughts. Now that Meg had been taken he had no clarity; all the careful plans they’d laid earlier seemed neatly dissected by this new counter-ploy of Vaisey’s.

“What do we do?” he asked again.

Robin leaned his elbows on the table, his head down.

“We’ll set a watch,” he said, glancing up. “The gang can follow anyone seen coming out of the house. And with the girl working for us now, she may hear something useful.”

“And if none of this works? Then if we succeed…. if the king lives, Meg dies. You know that.”

Guy pressed fingers to his temples. He had known, deep down, during the long years of his servitude to Vaisey, why he would never be able to break free. That more than an oath of loyalty kept him bound to the sheriff.

Because here he was, with formidable allies, and still Vaisey was winning. Robin had never been able to defeat him either. Yes, he waged his war of attrition - he stole monies, he aided the peasants, he annoyed and undermined Vaisey and evaded capture…

…and yet. The sheriff remained in office. Now he’d even increased the stakes, moving the conflict to a bigger stage, all the while treating the shire like an ox which he would whip and burden until it staggered to its knees and bled out from a final cut. By then, it would have served its purpose. The king would be gone, Prince John enthroned, and Vaisey moving on to wider horizons and greater power.

Absorbed by the grimness of his thoughts, it startled him when a cup was slid across the table. He glanced up.

“Will it help?” he asked sullenly.

“No. Bassam’s devout,” Robin replied.

The sheriff has wine,” Guy observed dully, scooping up the wide-rimmed cup.

“Cornelian cherry,” Djaq supplied, entering the room as he tilted the cup, examining its contents.

“How’s Allan?” asked Robin.

“Asleep. And the longer he stays so, the better.”

“His hand…..?”

“Too soon to tell. They weren’t…kind. The fingers may heal, they may even heal straight, but I doubt he’ll ever wield a blade with that hand again.” 

Guy’s own fingers tightened around the cup. He took another swig and placed it down. Less than a day the outlaws had been here, and already this was the result? Would Vaisey decide that he was next? That even without knowing about the plot against him, that he simply _knew_ too much?

But the sheriff needed him to kill a king. At the thought of this – so imminent now - Guy felt the subtle creep of fear, as inexorable as the drop of liquid now trickling down the side of the cup on the table before him.

“….it will be the pigeons.” Robin’s voice interrupted his brooding.

“What?” His gaze snapped up.

“Vaisey had no idea we were coming,” Robin explained. “Yet he’s been having this place watched, for weeks now, perhaps months. Fetch the girl, Djaq, we need to find out.”

Guy thought, at first, that this would be a waste of time. With her gaze averted, the servant kept silent until Djaq – with a small sigh - took her by the elbow and led her to the room where Allan was resting. He had no idea what the outlaw said but, when they returned, the girl proved willing to talk.

“So, tell me,” Robin asked quietly, “why are you here?”

“To intercept messages,” the girl admitted. “News of troop movements from the emirs…. communication codes…camp locations….anything the sultan doesn’t want entrusted to a rider will come through these birds.”

“Is that all?” Again, soft-spoken.

The servant pressed her lips together, then glanced at Djaq.

“I promise,” Djaq nodded. “If you help us, we will protect you and your brothers.”

“You cannot,” the girl said sullenly. “Men like this, they’ll find a way to hurt us if we betray them.”

“They won’t know,” soothed Djaq. “We’re not asking you to give false information. And whatever you tell us here, it will help save our king. Once that’s done, your brothers will be set free, and these traitors will be executed.”

The brown eyes suddenly flared with resentment.

“You think you know everything. But you’re wrong, you can’t control everything. War is not that simple.”

“Of course it’s not,” agreed Robin. “We all suffer. Which is why we want to end it, if we can. Reveal these plots to the king, encourage him to make peace and then come home, to his own people.”

The girl gazed a long moment at Robin; her eyes flicked over the rest of them, coming to rest on Guy.

“You…you’re with them.”

His death sentence, Guy knew, if their hold over the girl slipped. But she said nothing more, just turned back to Robin.

“You don’t know what your king will do. If you save him, perhaps he’ll stay here, and continue waging war on my people. Whereas the other one….his plan, it would rip the claws from your lion, and wipe his footprints from out of our land altogether.”

The girl’s certainty made Guy’s skin prickle.

“And with him, your brothers…..” murmured Djaq.

“Yes – but this war risks all of us.”

“The king isn’t going to die,” Robin said abruptly. “We can already prevent it. So whatever you’ve been asked to do, which I can guess…..”

Guy glanced at him; had Locksley figured it out, or was he bluffing?

“…..you can either help us, or say nothing; either way, you’re free to go. But if you betray us, your brothers will go to….”

“A message,” the girl interrupted then. “I was to wait until I heard that your king was dead, and then send word to the sultan that it was time to strike.” 

Shock wove through the silence which followed, until Robin murmured: “I thought as much.”

“Would he do that?” Will had entered quietly. “I mean, I know it’s the sheriff an’ all, but would even he….”

“Of course he would,” snapped Guy. “Remember Joseph? If he was prepared to poison the king’s armies once they landed back home, why would he scruple to use the Saracens to do the job for him here?”

“Oh yes – he’d do it,” agreed Robin. Then: “Will, take Little John and release one of this lass’s brothers. She’s shown good faith, we must show some in return.”

Will disappeared; soon the girl, free to go, left too, escorted by Djaq.

“Why would you do that?” Guy questioned, once they were alone. “She now has only half the reason she had before not to turn me in to the sheriff.”

“She won’t.”

Once, such a cocky assurance would have rankled; now there was so much at stake, their plans and the sheriff’s intrigues all interwoven and so delicately poised that Guy was tempted, almost, to let it soothe his own fears.

But not quite. Vaisey, after all, was Vaisey.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” Robin had already moved on.

Guy frowned, and waited.

“That whoever the traitor is, he would be caught in a bloodbath if Saladin attacked. Either that…” Robin smacked his palms hard on the table, making the drinks quiver in their cups, “….yes, that’ll be it! If he’s warned he can be prepared, be ready to organise the troops. Which will place him, straight away, in a position of command, ready to step into the gap.”

“Which means it’s someone senior, or at least in the king’s inner circle…..”

“…..and very ambitious.” Robin flung himself up from the table. “I have to talk to Much. And you must get back. You’ve been gone too long….”

“….and with only failure to report,” muttered Guy, getting to his feet.

Meg, too, was gone, complicating his position further. If Vaisey was using her to secure his obedience, if they couldn’t locate her then all their plans teetered on the brink. Striding back through the eerily quiet, curfewed streets, his arm burning beneath his slashed leathers, Guy wondered how long it would be before someone – before he himself - made a misstep which would endanger them all.

                                    ---------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Dead, you say?” Vaisey spoke quietly; he could have been discussing the merits of the wine in his cup. “You’re telling me that Karim, and six of his men – all of them, except you – are _dead_?”

“Yes.”

“That they’d forced entry before you got there, and that there was nothing you could do?”

“I told you what happened….”

“Yes, yes, you told me. But this complicates things, Gisborne. It puts us behind. I need those men for our plan to work, I need them to clear your way into the king’s camp. Nasir will just have to find us some more.”

“Indeed.” Guy paused. Then: “Is that all, m’lord?”

“ _Is that all_ ….no, Gisborne, it is not all. You should know that while you were out, your lady wife saw fit to release Allan a-Dale. For which traitorous act, I’ve incarcerated her.”

“Where?” rasped Guy. “If you’ve hurt her….”

“…what? You’ll what?”

Guy swallowed his defiance – telling Vaisey he could go hang, that he could find someone else to do his king-killing. He knew who would win that battle.

Vaisey read his sullen acquiescence, as he always did.

“Listen to me, Gizzy,” purred the sheriff. “It’s simple, really. Succeed in this task, and then I might feel forgiving; I will let you have her back. Fail, and…..well let’s just say, shall we, that failure is not an option? That this is simply a little added incentive. Perhaps that’s what we’ve been missing all along. Ah, yes indeed, we’ve been missing a little missy….”

He chortled at his own wit. Vaisey strolled out then, playing about with the words on his tongue and Guy glared after him, grinding his teeth until his jaw hurt, feeling impotent.

_Failure is not an option_. This couldn’t be truer, given the stakes. 

What terrified him was that this time he was playing a game of his own; a game which, at this point, he could not see how he could win.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	21. Encounters

From where they stood, the sloping folds of the land stretched away in seeming endless succession to the north, their peaks draped in the lazing cloud-shadows of a still day. Below lay the king’s camp, which Robin appraised with an experienced eye: easily defensible, a nearby oasis for water, clear lines in and out for messengers, reinforcements and supplies. Well hidden, too. Lying to the north of Acre, the surrounding hills and dunes kept the camp safe from casual observation.

As Djaq farewelled Bassam, Robin started down the hill. Marian was beside him; he was glad she couldn’t read his tangled thoughts. This place – not just the camp, but Acre, all of it – fingered his mind with memories he wished to keep buried.

Impossible, here.

The mantle of crusader had slipped over him again, even though he no longer wore the cross of St George. In Sherwood, he could fool himself – sometimes – that the slain of a foreign war no longer had a hold on him. But this control slipped in his sleep. It was as if his subconscious mind mocked him, reminding him how close beneath the surface of his waking mind these horrors lay in ambush.

Here, the soldier in Robin responded, both in instinct and intent. He knew that none of the constraints he applied at home operated here: he would kill as needed, when needed. He’d known it since, to protect Gisborne, they’d needed to slay every member of the raiding party. The king’s war had become his war again, in a very immediate and personal way.

Their path down from the ridge was a leisurely switchback, which now led towards a line of trees. Below, the king’s camp lay in the bowl of an ancient, dried-up lake-bed. The smell of smoke from cook-fires drifted up to them; to feed an army this size, the cooks worked long hours. Robin supposed Much would be hoping for another meal, and glancing over his shoulder…..

“Master….is that the sentry?” A few jogging strides had brought Much alongside. He pointed towards the copse ahead of them. “And if so, why….”

“Scatter! Now!”

With one hand Robin shoved Much, with the other he grabbed Marian and they tumbled to earth as an arrow cleaved the air above their heads. Little John had acted on Robin’s shout, diverting his course too; the arrow struck his pack.

Robin hauled Marian up and they ran in a crouch back across the slope.

“Will, go! Raise the alarm,” he barked.

Will had been at the rear, the furthest out of range. He tore down the hill, a scrambling run that swiftly increased the distance between himself and the archer. Robin and the others rolled into the lee of a hump in the terrain, but seconds later Robin was up and running. He’d seen a figure dart from cover, further back into the trees. The attacker had decided not to risk another shot. Robin sprinted for the trees, the gang with him. _Good. More eyes, if we don’t catch him._

The beat of horse hooves ahead, and Robin knew they’d lost their man. He kept up his breakneck pace; even at a distance, any clue they might glean – build, hair colour, clothing –  could later help identify him. But as they charged through the copse and out the other side, the dun landscape yielded nothing but hoofprints. The gang came up beside him, all out of breath. Robin paced back and forth, frustrated.

“He tried to kill us!” Much exclaimed, between gulps of air. “You – he tried to kill you!”

“He would have, if you hadn’t seen him,” Robin acknowledged.

Much huffed this oblique thanks away.

“Was that the traitor, then?” he asked. “That dirty, filthy…..if I ever get my hands on him…..”

Robin lay a calming hand on Much’s shoulder.

“Hopefully you won’t have to,” he said grimly. “If all goes according to plan, the king will do it for us.”

They made their way down to the camp which, thanks to Will, was now alert to their arrival. As they strode up the alley towards the king’s tent, past banners drooping from tent-corners and poles, cries of _Ut prosim_ hailed them.

“That was us. Good days,” Much said, smiling, proud to be recognised as former king’s guard.

Robin glanced around. Heavy smoke wafted from the blacksmith’s forge; an armourer’s mallet beat spasmodically as they passed by. Squires unloaded mules and ran messages. A Crusader, returning from skirmish, surcoat rent and bloodied, crossed in front of them, leading a limping horse. The beating heart of the Crusader army: the rumble of carts, voices, interspersed by strident calls and commands. It all blended into a rough dissonance, one which had formed the backdrop to more days and nights – a passage of time which had seemed endless – than Robin could have counted or cared to remember.

He wondered now if the would-be assassin lay in wait, watching.

“Well, not good,” Much was saying. “Death…destruction, all that. But…you know. _Ut prosim_ , lads.”

Much might not have known what the Latin meant, but he did: _That I May Serve_. 

Many things had brought him here the first time, Robin reflected, but this time he was here, they all were, simply to do a job. Twice within their first twenty-four hours they’d been attacked; it weighed on him, that he had brought Marian and the gang with him. Robin vowed to himself that they would do this job and then be gone. Simple, straightforward. As all the best plans were.

They neared the king’s tent, and as Richard emerged Robin noted that the last couple of years had added bulk to his frame. But still there was warmth in his greeting as Robin sank to one knee and bowed his head.

“Your Majesty.”

“Ah, Robin of Locksley,” replied the Lionheart. “Here five minutes, and already you bring an uproar! Someone attacked you on the approach?”

“They did.”

“Then we must find the culprit. Come, friend, we’ve much to discuss.”

Much accompanied him, following the king inside. Ready to get down to business, Richard folded his arms across his chest and waited to hear what he had to say.

“Majesty, may we speak in private?”

“Of course.” He glanced over his shoulder, motioning the silver-haired Crusader behind him to leave.

“Speak, Robin,” he said, once they were alone. “What is it you wish to tell me?”

“You received my message, I trust?”

“Indeed I did. Carter brought word that the Sheriff of Nottingham and the Black Knights are plotting against me, that they plan to take over England.” Richard sank onto a chair, motioning Robin to do the same. “But your Vaisey, he is cunning. He names you as one of the Black Knights. It’s lucky for you that I remember your seal so well.”

“I was counting on it, sire. Here’s the originaI I took from him.”

Robin passed the document to the king. Richard rolled out the parchment, scanning the names penned upon it.

“Mostly what I’d expect,” he murmured. “This one….wait, I recall Carter said something about him. Isn’t he the one who attacked me in Saracen garb that time, and almost killed you?”

“Guy of Gisborne, sire. Yes. But he’s the reason we’re here. He’s been in Vaisey’s employ – he still is - but he’s working with us now. He’s the one who told us the sheriff has another regicide attempt planned. They’re here now, staying in Acre.”

“Ah,” the king growled, “that very word, it stinks like rank meat. And yet you trust him, why?”

“Because Vaisey planned to use an accomplice, and have Gisborne take the blame.”

“An accomplice? Amongst my men?”

Robin nodded gravely.

“The man who attacked you,” the king observed.

“No doubt.”

“Then we must find him. Whoever it was,” mused Richard, “he knew you were bringing me this document. It doesn’t incriminate him, though, so why take the risk?”

“To protect Vaisey. Which explains why he was only prepared to take one shot. He wouldn’t risk being caught and having his own identity exposed.”

The king rose, prowling the tent.

“This is grave, Robin. I’ve enemies enough to deal with here, without my brother’s ambitions sending me more from England. So,” he said resuming his seat, “tell me what you plan.”

Robin complied, outlining the stratagem they’d devised to catch the traitor.

“Very well. You will stay, then, as my bodyguard, until this all plays out. Just like the old days, hmmm?”

“With your leave, sire, I’ll see to my gang first. We’ve a complication to deal with – Vaisey holds Gisborne’s wife hostage.”

“Ah, so the master no longer trusts his cur? No – wait Robin.” Richard gestured him back to his seat. “This bothers me, that we sit and wait for trouble to come to us. There must be something we can do. This fake pact, for example. Vaisey couldn’t bring it himself….”

“….what, Vaisey didn’t deliver it?” exclaimed Much. “Gisborne said he did.”

“Then one of them is lying.”

“The sheriff,” asserted Robin. “He doesn’t want his presence here to be known, not if he plans to lay blame for regicide on his own lieutenant. But Guy must be kept in the dark, so he’s been given some pretext and told that Vaisey came here.”

“While he delivers the document to me by some other means.”

“Who brought it to you?”

“Carter.”

Robin shook his head, belatedly recognising the trap into which they’d fallen.

“By all means,” he offered, “let’s ask Carter how he came by it. It may lead us to the traitor.”

“Robin.” Richard spoke ruefully. “You’ve always been too willing to see the best in men. Those who would betray us can often be those we least expect. But yes, by all means, let’s bring him in and question him. I, for one, would like to get to the bottom of this.”

—————————————————————————————

“You, Allan-a-Dale,” scolded Djaq, “are a terrible patient.”

“Well, what did you expect?”

“That when there’s nothing to be done, you’d have the sense to rest.”

“Ah. But there is something I can do.”

Allan paused at the door, determined not to sway and so reveal how weak he still was. Nonetheless, Djaq opened the door and held his elbow until he could muster himself through it.

She’d bound his fingers to splints and made a sling to support his arm as much – Allan suspected – to keep him from any foolhardiness as anything. Not that he was tempted. He hurt all over. His ribs felt as if they’d been kicked by a mule. Claws of pain raked the skin – blistered and raw - where the iron had branded his torso, never more so than when Djaq had applied an unguent to it. He’d howled then, and thrown a few choice curses at her, but he’d had to admit afterwards that it had felt a bit better. For a while. His fingers ached and throbbed; nothing he couldn’t handle, until it became too much to handle and then Djaq seemed to know that too, giving him a tincture to ease the pain.

Injuries aside, he hadn’t come here to languish on a bed, kicked and cowed. During the night, a thought had occurred, one which had given him a thread of hope. Guy had sent some lad to watch this house in the days before the gang arrived. His own urchin had been similar in height and build; a slim hope, to be sure, but at that moment he would take any he could get.

As he gained the outer door – proud he hadn’t stumbled – Djaq lifted the bar but allowed him to open the door onto the street himself. Lurching gracelessly onto the threshold, Allan scanned up and down the street. It bore only a few travellers, a sharbat-seller serving a turbaned youth, and two scraggly curs. Deflated, Allan sagged back inside. He didn’t know what he’d expected; well, that wasn’t quite true. A miracle, perhaps.

“Tell the others to keep an eye out,” he told Djaq. “If they see a lad watching the house, about your height, he could be the one I sent after Meg.”

Aware as he said it what a long shot this sounded, he muttered something about being a model patient and went back to lie down, wondering as he went if by any stretch he could be called one of the lucky ones yet.

——————————————————————————————-

“This pains me, Carter.” The king stood, arms folded, gazing down at the Crusader on his knees, head bowed, before him. “Your brother was brave and loyal and served us well; you’ve always been the same. And yet you kneel here, accused of bringing us a traitor’s ruse, and the best you can do is say that a courier gave it to you? Did anyone else see this exchange? Did anyone feed and succour the man, or give him a bed, or see him leave? Think, man.”

Robin waited, sitting on a stool to one side of the king’s tent, hoping Carter might find an answer which would prove his innocence.

“It was late. That’s why I took the message, it was my watch,” Carter stumbled over the sentences, aware it was a paltry enough store of recollections. “So no, no one else saw. I sent him to get a meal, but he said he’d just eaten.”

Carter paused, aware he was offering nothing which could earn him a reprieve. Richard shifted impatiently.

“You’ll need to give me more than that. If you can’t…..and this is the last thing I want, believe me,” – Robin noticed that in his sincerity, Richard had dropped the royal plural – “then there are men and methods here that will pry out every last drop of what you know, and leave precious little else capable of sense behind.”

Robin rose, too agitated to sit still.

“Sire, Carter’s loyal. He’s telling you the truth; he’s not the one behind this.”

“Be silent, Robin,” Richard commanded.

But something Carter had said snagged Robin’s attention.

“Wait…Carter, you said he’d just eaten. So where? You saw him entering the camp?”

“Yes. Along the northern corridor.”

“But Acre lies to the south. So unless he’d been into the camp already, and then gone around to the north to make it look as if he’d just arrived, then our messenger didn’t come from Acre.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Carter. “But I don’t think so. If you’re implying he picked up his commission in camp, why would he? Who would hire a messenger to deliver something from one side of the camp to the other?”

“Robin, where are you going with this?” interjected the king.

“I don’t know.” Robin ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Let me think. Of course, no one would do so. Which means that they met the messenger somewhere to the north.”

“And what significance does that have?” asked Richard.

Robin was silent, the implications churning in his head.

“A meeting place,” he said at last. “There must be somewhere outside Acre where the conspirators could meet once Vaisey arrived in the Holy Land.”

“Find evidence of this, and we could use it to lure out the traitor,” Carter said eagerly.

“I’m still not convinced it isn’t you.” Richard cast Carter a quelling glance. “It would help if we had someone to corroborate your story. If any one of the watch had seen this mysterious courier.”

“You say he didn’t ride straight out?” Robin asked.

“No. That I do remember. Said he’d not say no to a pallet for the night.”

Richard called for a guard.

“Check with the camp steward whether a courier reported for duty – when was this, Carter?”

“Three nights ago.”

“The day following then.”

“Majesty.”

The man bowed head and departed, returning shortly with the news that no messenger had checked in that day; it was customary when news was brought into the camp for the bearer to place themselves at the king’s service, ready for whatever messages may need to be borne out.

“Very good. Thank you, dismissed.”

Robin and the king exchanged a thoughtful glance.

“You’re thinking what I’m thinking?” said Richard.

“That this messenger never left the camp alive.”

“Exactly so. Find me a body Carter, and then I’ll believe you. Go,” decreed the king.  

                                           ------------------------------------------------------------------------

To be arbiter of her own fate, that would be the thing.

The hours chased their tail. Meg had nothing to do but mark the sun’s traverse across the walls and the sandy floors of her prison. She was quite alone; she had been since they’d brought her here, dressed in the concealing garb of the local women so that her light skin and hair wouldn’t attract attention on the way.

They’d not bothered to blindfold her. No need, when they’d bound her so securely that there was no point worrying the bonds; when she was isolated, with no one nearby to press for sympathy or aid. This place, Meg knew, had been abandoned. She could hear no human traffic, no bleat of livestock, only the clack or the soft susurration of the date palms, depending upon the mood of the desert wind, and the play of that same wind amongst leaves and the debris that lingered, like the smell of the village’s abandoned oven, and the smear of soot across its baked-brick surrounds, to mark the former inhabitants.

The silence became a companion, by turns comfort or irritant, but something which could be relied upon. She tried singing, once, only to find that the notes hung thinly and unnaturally in the air, as out of place as a minstrel in a harvest-field. And it was only when that silence was broken, when something else unnatural intruded upon it, that fear – elemental and swift – rose up in her breast and wouldn’t be quelled. She was very aware that she was here, alone, prey to any opportunist in the form of bandit or beast. The less attention she drew to herself, the better.

She wasted plenty of thought on escape, although most of it amounted to wishful thinking. The ropes that bound her wrists and feet were unforgiving, and expertly tied. It occurred to her that perhaps she should have given in to Guy’s urging to leave him, back in Nottingham; by remaining, she’d unwittingly given the sheriff a hostage to play against him. Embracing her forced marriage, cloaking it in the semblance of choice, had done nothing but bind the same chains around her which were forever tightening around her husband.

As morning crawled into afternoon, a man Meg didn’t recognise brought her a flask of water, and a handful of dates. Which meant they intended to keep her alive, at least for another night. It confused her, initially, when he didn’t bother to re-tie her bonds. But as he walked to where his horse was tethered, Meg realised that for all her desperate wish to be free of the ropes, to be so was far from liberty. Without a mount, out here in the desert with no supplies, no aid, and no idea of where she was, she was as helpless as before.

As the man swung up onto the mare, Meg snatched up a rock. But the Saracen circled his mount slowly around to face her.

“You really wish to do that?” His dark eyes bored into her, one hand resting on his curved blade.

Meg judged distances, and the likelihood of an accurate aim; the consequences of failure. She lowered her arm, letting the missile drop.

Without a word, the Saracen whirled about. As he tapped the horse forward Meg snatched up the rock again. She surged forward, aiming for the back of his head, but the dust clouded her aim and coated her throat, making her choke. When her coughing was done and she looked up again, eyes pricking, he was gone.

Meg stood at the edge of the abandoned village, uncertain what to do. She turned and walked down an alley, back into a large courtyard with a central well. She drew from it and drank. Lanes led out from the courtyard; listlessly, Meg wandered along one of these. Glancing up, she noted the tattered remains of shelters on the abandoned rooftops, dried palms sagging from their bent frames. An idea began to form.

After some diligent effort Meg accomplished her task, assembling a pyre on one of these rooftops. She’d found plentiful fuel -  not only the dried palms, but desiccated dung stockpiled by the communal oven. If only she could find some way to light it – she’d hunted all over for flint and fire-steel, but had found none.

It wasn’t the only problem, she despaired, sitting on the rooftop, staring out across the barren surrounds which marked her prison. Suppose she could coax a flame to life, what then? No one would be searching out here; chances are, any beacon would be more likely to draw unwanted attention than to bring her aid. The practicalities of her situation seemed overwhelming.

_Arbiter of my fate indeed_.

It seemed that she was never to be so.

 

 


	22. Strings

“I could have wished for better circumstances than this for a reunion,” muttered Carter.

He sat on a stool in the tent Robin and Much had been given, hands drooping between his knees. Robin stood at the open flap, looking out, frustrated by the hopelessness of the task they’d been assigned. It was a country of desert, after all, a gift for anyone wishing to hide a corpse.

“Well, I think it couldn’t be better timing,” replied Much. “With us here, you’ve a better chance of clearing your name.”

“We’re missing something,” Robin said, ignoring them both. “Something which ties all this together, if only we could find it.”

“You mean if only we could find who took a shot at us,” grumbled Much. “That would answer a lot of questions. All of them, in fact. Instead, we’re supposed to look for a body out here, which could be anywhere. I mean….”

“So, what do we know about the man who attacked us?” Robin cut in.

“Well, nothing, except that he was waiting there in the trees for us.”

Robin thought for a few moments, gazing out at the camp’s mid-afternoon lull.

“Vaisey must have warned him we were coming, but he couldn’t have known when,” he said thoughtfully. “So what was he doing up there, at that precise time? Did he spend hours watching – difficult, without his absence being noted, or without attracting attention.”

“And knowing that he had to watch that approach, if he had to bury a body….” Carter had seen where he was going with it, at almost the same moment as Robin knew himself.

“…then why not combine the two necessities in one place?”

“Far enough from the camp to be discreet, trees for concealment….”

“The courier’s horse to use, one he could release and send on its way, thus being able to walk into camp without attracting attention.”

“What are we waiting for then?” said Much. “Let’s go.”

The hunch proved correct; after a few minutes of searching the grove, a patch of disturbed ground revealed a recently-dug grave.

“Ugh….do we have to?” Much reeled back as the stench escaped the removed layers of soil.

Resolute, Robin continued the task.

“It might tell us something, Much.”

He scraped aside enough dirt to reveal the corpse. They stepped back, reluctant, in the end, to scour the body for clues.

“At least we know how he died,” observed Carter.

There was a wound in the ghoul-grey chest, where a blade would have punctured the lung.

“Well, I don’t see what else this can tell us,” grumbled Much.

“No. Unless….” Robin crouched down, stifling the sights this ruffled in his memory – at war, infantry was ever willing to rifle the dead. He lifted a pouch from the man’s belt. “This might tell us something.”

But the pouch was empty of commissions, or of any identifying feature. He dropped it beside the body and stepped back.

“Let’s go and tell the king, then we’ll get this man a proper burial.”

“At least we’ve cleared your name,” Much said to Carter.

“Indeed, we have.”

“And yet we know nothing more.” Robin shook his head in frustration. “Where they met – how he picked up his commission – who engaged him….”

“Find out where, and perhaps you would find Gisborne’s woman,” mused Carter.

Robin glanced at him sharply; a reasonable thought, and one which hadn’t occurred to him. But it still gave them no real help, not while the answers eluded them.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go and get you a king’s apology.”

“I’ll settle for his trust,” said Carter, as they started back down the slope.

                                                ---------------------------------------------------------------------

“You did what?” yelled Vaisey, before recalling that he should moderate his voice. This was one conversation which his lieutenant mustn’t overhear.

“Where can she possibly go?” the Saracen defended himself, his tone matching his sullen glare.

It reminded Vaisey that he needed to be careful with these people. They were his allies, yes, but foreigners nonetheless; the trust between them was a tentative thing. It need only be shaken to dislodge the nesting resentments, and this could see him end up with a blade between his own ribs. But the fact that this man had let his captive roam loose….it made him jittery. At this juncture, it was critical that they make no mistakes. He would go out there himself later and see to the Lady Gisborne, make sure that she was secure in preparation for the morning’s triumph.  

“Yes. I suppose there is that,” Vaisey muttered, his best attempt at conciliation.  “Even so, I’m taking no chances. Everything else is ready then? Nasir will have his men by tonight?”

“He will. They will be in place by the fourth watch, as agreed.”

“Very good. When it’s all done, have our man meet me as arranged. I’ll be waiting.”

The Saracen left. Vaisey rubbed his hands together in nervous anticipation. All was in readiness, his puppets in place; he only needed to twitch the strings to set them dancing. The one uncertainty in all this, of course, was that Hood was still on the loose. But the outlaw could have no idea of their plans, of this Vaisey was fairly certain. He would wake up on the morrow and find that for all his do-gooding, for all his desperate rush to be here, it was all for nothing – his precious King Richard would be gone. Dead. Dead as a doornail.

Skipping a few steps of glee across the courtyard, in his head Vaisey ticked off what needed to be done. First things first, he must tell Gisborne that tonight was the night. The girl must be warned, to be ready with the bird. And later he would depart for Imuiz. _Puppets_. All of them: outlaws, Saracens, the king, his lieutenant.

Eminently satisfied, he went in search of Gisborne.

                                            --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Guy sat gazing at the pitcher on the table. His usual refuge, denied him. He would need his wits about him for whatever was to come later.

He’d known all along that it would come to this, somehow. That here, at the end, he would be put in a position which made it impossible for him to win. Sitting in that low-ceilinged, overheated chamber, the fan-bearer Vaisey had employed shifting the sultry air in wafts which gave no relief, he ran over scenario after scenario in his head, finding none that would give him a way out; none that would allow him to save both the king and Meg.

He lifted the pitcher and carelessly began to pour. When he realised what he was doing – the wine slopping from cup to table – Guy roared his frustration. He hefted the pitcher at the wall, watching with satisfaction as the shattering shards scattered over the floor, the wine seeping in red runnels down the wall. He wished he could fling his problems aside - his whole life, in fact – with as much ease.

Even here, thousands of miles from Nottingham, the urge to flee was strong. To just leave it all behind, to forget about Vaisey and Hood and the king, to leave them to their stupid games while he took ship and disappeared. Robin was relying on him though – Robin, and the King of England. Guy snorted. It was stupid of them. No one relied on him; no one _should_ rely on him. Not even Meg.

Especially not Meg. He could only fail her.

Guy slumped down, staring out into the courtyard, where the day’s heat shimmered whitely across cracked tiles. _Sweet Meg_.  Where was she now? Had Vaisey even kept her alive? Robin had had no success in locating her. She could be anywhere, in any dim, dark cellar, tucked away in any Saracen abode…Vaisey had allies here, plenty of options.

Of course, Vaisey had offered him the solution: succeed in his mission, kill the king, and she would be restored to him. Only Guy knew better. If Vaisey had his way, he would be dead, and Meg superfluous. He couldn’t save her by following Vaisey’s instructions; nor could he save her by failing to do so.

He dropped his head into his hands, fighting back the tide of helplessness. Vaisey, in all his diabolical cleverness, had found a perfect weapon to wield – a woman who had been willing to make her life with him….with _him_ …despite all the things he had done, despite the depths to which he had sunk. One who was prepared to do it with grace and an affection that acknowledged she was willing to wait for his heart, if ever he was prepared to offer it.

And was he?

In the past, Marian had consumed him. Wanting to be with her had almost driven him mad, at times. Not to mention the woman herself. _You must be the least easily-won woman in all of England_.  Never had he spoken truer words.

He couldn’t remember a time when thoughts of Marian had given him peace. Even when they’d been betrothed, when it seemed that finally she was to be within his grasp…even then, it had been as if he lived on a precipice, with the possibility of his future happiness balanced so precariously that the slightest shift might topple it. Even so, he couldn’t have predicted how spectacularly it would fall in the end.

But Meg….somehow, he had earned her affections. _Her pity, more like_ , he thought sourly, remembering the first time they’d met: him, pathetic, bedraggled, half-drowned; her, fresh-faced and lovely, herself damp from the rescue, with the stink of dung wafting up from her hem.

It had been ungallant of him, he realised, smirking a little, to point it out, when after all she _had_ just saved his life.

When they met again, in the dungeon, she’d borne no grudge; had clung to his reluctantly-offered comfort. And since Vaisey’s decree that they wed, she had seemed to slip naturally into his life, when he’d never expected a woman to do so.

He couldn’t imagine a more unsuccessful courtship than his attempts to win Marian. He knew why now. Not just his own awkwardness – sometimes tongue-tied as a green lad, he still reddened to recall it – but she had been Robin’s all along. He’d never stood a chance. Marian had only agreed to marry him under duress; Guy felt ashamed, now, of the threats he’d used to coerce her. In fact, he felt ashamed of the whole sorry mess: of the tangle of lies and manipulation their relationship had become, of the intense way in which he’d pursued her.

In some strange way, he felt freer now. He was glad of it.

And he was glad of Meg. She’d become….what, exactly? An ear to listen to his concerns, a voice to soothe them; a welcoming body that cleaved to his in the middle of the night, with moans of pleasure and murmurs which, if not of love – to an ear attuned to hear them – at least whispered to him of its possibility.

She was, in short, someone he _wanted_ to be with.

_Foolishness, Gisborne. Weakness. They’re lepers, all of them_.

Guy gripped the stem of the empty goblet, sorely tempted to smash that too. That voice – and how he loathed it! - was right about one thing. He shouldn’t be having such thoughts, not now; he should be focussing on the tasks ahead. Fruitless, now, when all would end here, one way or another, tonight. He bowed his head, acknowledging that the outlines of a fragile hope for his future – born, against his better judgment, from the hours and days he’d spent in Meg’s company – now whispered away, dying.

But there was one thing he could do – and should be doing. Guy shoved to his feet. Vaisey had gone out, and none of Nasir’s men were about, all of which meant that he was free to visit Salah ve Bazri St and tell the outlaws that it would be tonight. Perhaps, then, they would find some way to let Robin know.

Gathering his jacket and his wits, Guy left the house. He’d not gone far up the street when he became aware that someone was following him. He took the next corner and then swung back to confront them. The lad yelped at his drawn sword; Guy sheathed it, recognising the boy who’d spied on Bassam’s house for him.

“What is it?” Guy demanded. “What do you want?”

“Your friend….” the lad mimed dangling fingers, “he said follow lady.”

“You saw them? When? Where did they go?”

The boy didn’t reply. Perhaps he didn’t understand; but then Guy noticed the upturned palm. A transaction, of course, like any other. He produced a coin.

“Show. Is easy,” said his young guide.

Guy followed the boy through turn after turn, along twisting alleys that toyed with his sense of direction. When at last he stopped, they’d reached a small dwelling near a section of wall still standing, its face to the street showing as little as any other. But still wary of being seen, Guy tugged the boy back out of sight.

“They’re here?” He felt a foolish surge of hope; it couldn’t be this easy.

It wasn’t.

“Here for night. With sun, horses come. They leave.”

“Which way?”

The boy shrugged.

“Gate, near.”

He pointed and, glancing at the lowering angle of the sun, Guy guessed they’d taken the St Lazarus Gate out of the city. North, then.

“What town is that way?”

The boy gazed back at him, lifting a laconic shoulder. Sighing, Guy proffered another coin, but the boy shook his head.

“Take it. House with the blue door, show me.” He pointed to himself.

Still a blank look. Losing patience, Guy drew his sword –

“Look,” he snapped, grabbing his arm as the boy flinched back and would have flown.

With his blade-point, Guy drew in the dust the symbol the boy had left the day the outlaws came. The lad’s face brightened. Quicker than a dust-devil he swirled and would have been gone if Guy hadn’t hastened after him, only managing on the third try to slam his sword into its scabbard as he ran.

Perhaps the pigeon-handler could shed some light on where her abductors might have taken Meg.

                                                  ----------------------------------------------------------------

The silence was never absolute, Meg discovered, during the long course of that afternoon. Some sounds she could identify: the scruff and scrape of palm-leaf husks, or the flap of a rope against a wall, one which had once been hung with washing but which now dangled free, to be caught occasionally by an errant shift of wind.

She realised, too, how rare it had been for her to experience solitude in her life. Not just being alone – that was different. That was voluntary, with company never more than a shout or any other act of will away. But out here, isolated, this was to be wholly set part - the kind of rarefied solitude which was sought and embraced by both visionaries and holy men.

But of these, Meg was neither. She found it oppressive, and at regular intervals would leave her vantage point on the roof to roam the village streets, as much to relieve cramping limbs as anything. It was on one of these jaunts, as dusk mantled the closing day, that she startled an animal. Like a dog in appearance – but long in the body and scrawny, with large ears - it was nosing about the communal oven, no doubt drawn by the lingering taint of food. Startled, the creature jolted, and then slunk away. But later, once Meg was back on the roof, she knew that it was prowling the streets below, looking for food. More than once, she caught a glimpse of not one but two pairs of eyes, gleaming in the dark.

She had some sympathy; her own last meal, those few dates in the middle of the day, had left her far from satisfied. At least water was to be had in the well. Meg wondered if she should make a dash for the well before trying to sleep; even with these creatures roaming around, she would need another drink before morning.

While pondering this, Meg became aware of another sound; it was one that didn’t belong out here, not at this time of night. She went to the edge of the roof, craning to see, and could just catch a glimpse through a gap of a rider entering the village. One who bore a torch. But she didn’t have a clear enough view to identify the man. Was it the Saracen? Having thought better of letting her roam free, had he returned to re-secure her bonds? _Then he must think again_. 

The familiarity of her rooftop gave Meg a scrap of confidence. From its security, as the intruder began walking the streets she watched the flickering path of the torch. It lit the walls and arches in its path with leaping demons, while whoever bore it scoured the village seeking her.

And when the intruder passed directly beneath her hiding-place, Meg recognised the demon in the flesh who had come for her. The torch continued in its flickering path, accompanied by the bearer’s grumbling monologue….

“….did I come all this way just to surround myself with more incompetent buffoons? A clue….no. Did I really want to ride out here in the middle of the night, just to….”

As Vaisey disappeared around the next corner, Meg hugged her knees tightly in against her. The sound of the sheriff’s voice, and all her meagre plans suddenly seemed to be so many follies…it was inevitable that Vaisey would find her. She might as well just sit here and wait – soon enough, failing to find her at ground level, he would think to check the rooftops. The certainty of defeat seemed to seep into her bones with the same persistence as the desert cold, numbing, debilitating.  

_Guy warned me. This has been his lot, for years._

He had urged her so many times to flee, believing his own future beyond hope. Until the end, when he’d said that they should both run. By then, Meg had been so focussed on their plans to defeat the sheriff that she had given this no heed. Now, the memory warmed her; she wanted to bask in it, to allow herself the liberty of imagining what a life far from Nottingham, far from the sheriff, could have been like for them.  

More, she wanted to pretend that the possibility still existed.

Perhaps it did, but only if they won. And they would not win if she sat here, cowering on a roof, waiting timidly for the sheriff to find her.

_I have time_. 

The torch was wavering its way to the eastern side of the village. Meg tried to recall the layout of the streets: the location of the house in which she’d been detained, wondering if she could find it again, in the dark, without stumbling into Vaisey. While she was considering this, something caught her attention: riders, several of them, approaching the village.

Panic propelled Meg to her feet. Whoever these men were – whether strangers, or Vaisey’s co-conspirators – their presence would ensure her capture. She had only a short window of time, one that was closing rapidly as the hoofbeats drummed closer. Grabbing up a handful of tinder – palm husks she’d shredded for the pyre - on feet powered by fear she raced down the steps and flitted into the alley. Without pausing, she let her memory guide her through the twists and turns that, save for tripping over a broken urn - and here she paused, snatching up the sharpest shard – led her unerringly to the dwelling where she’d spent the previous night. Grabbing the thin blanket left there, she wrapped the tinder in it and darted back outside, heading for the point at which Vaisey had ridden into the village.

She found his horse.

Meg tried to still her racing pulse, to listen for the riders. But it wasn’t the sound of approaching horses that made her clutch convulsively at the horse’s mane. It was the sudden burst of light as, his torch held aloft, Vaisey came around the corner.

“My dear, you are becoming quite charmingly predictable,” drawled the sheriff.

And eyes glinting like the tip of his extended sword, Vaisey stalked towards her.

 

 

 


	23. Stratagems

Guy’s visit had enlivened a day which had otherwise done its best to smother Marian in boredom.

With a goodly dose of irritation. And worry. What was Robin thinking, sending her back here, knowing that he was at the camp with an assassin on the loose? He’d listened to none of her arguments, insisting she return with the others – all of whom suffered the same malaise, when the search for Meg yielded nothing but dead ends and frustrations.

Even Guy’s news, which had briefly given them hope, had led nowhere.

“To the north? Abandoned farms, abandoned villages,” Bassam had shrugged, when questioned. “We’ve been at war a long time. And the road divides, one way follows the coast and another leads inland. I’m sorry I can’t be of greater help, but we need more information if we’re to find this person.”

It was evening. Marian and Little John, sitting on cushions now at the low table, waited while Djaq checked on her patient. After some debate about who should go, Will had left earlier to warn Robin and Much of the impending attack.

“No, Marian. You’d attract too much attention.” Little John had thumped the table for emphasis, as they’d discussed it. “He’s supposed to be keeping a low profile.”

“Then you can’t go either,” she’d retorted.

“I’ll go,” Will had said, rising.

Marian had tried to think of an objection – or some argument which might allow her to go – but she knew in her heart that they were right. If her presence might endanger Robin, or the success of their mission, then she could hardly insist.

“I hate the sheriff.” Will had said, thumbing the blade of his axe. “He does nothing but destroy innocent lives. I wish I’d killed him in Nottingham, when I had the chance.”

“Will,” Marian chided quietly. “How many innocent lives would _that_ have cost?”

“Well I want him dead now.”

“We all do,” she had agreed.

Now, as they waited for Will’s return, Little John rose and paced towards the courtyard.

“Talk – all we do here is talk. There must be something the rest of us can _do_ ,” he said, his back to the room. “Perhaps we could go and search some of these farms and villages.”

“A waste of time,” Marian replied.

“What is?” Djaq asked, entering.

The serving girl, Vaisey’s former spy, followed her in, bearing a fresh pitcher of cordial.

“Going north and searching for Meg, with no clear idea of where to look.”

Marian tended to agree, but she understood John’s restlessness; she shared it herself.

“You heard Bassam,” Djaq agreed. “She could be anywhere.”

“To the north, you said?” They were startled to hear the serving girl speak; she hadn’t contributed to any of their previous discussions.

“Yes. Why,” pressed Djaq, “do you know something?”

The girl stopped pouring, resting the base of the pitcher on her left hand.

“If you are looking for someone, perhaps she’s where the balding one said he was going to meet with his…how do you say….? With the other man, the one who was already here.”

“Do you know the name of it?” Marian demanded.

Suppressed excitement made her abrupt; did they, at last, have information that might lead them to Meg?

“Yes,” replied the girl. “I overheard them talking. It was a village called Imuiz.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” said Little John. “Let’s go.”

But Bassam, when they asked him to guide them to the village, demurred.

“Not until morning, my friends. With the curfew, a group this size would attract too much attention.”

“And by then we will have Will back,” Djaq observed.

Marian looked impatiently from one to the other. If it was up to her, they would leave that very moment.

“But…..” she began.

Bassam raised a polite hand.

“Then it’s agreed. We will leave at first light,” he decreed.

Far from happy, Marian stalked out to the courtyard. She became aware of Little John, quietly joining her.

“This is madness…..we know where Meg is….”

“Where she might be….”

“…and yet we can’t go and look for her? Robin would never wait until morning.” Marian turned to look at him, an idea slowly forming. “Perhaps we could….”

“No, lass, I know what you’re thinking.”

“But you said it yourself, you want to be doing something.”

“I did. And I do. But this isn’t Sherwood, or Nottingham. To be heading out there at night, without a guide and no idea where we’re going….it’s suicide.”

Marian batted her palms futilely against the tiled fountain.

“I suppose you’re right. But John, if anything happens to Meg…I will never forgive myself.” Then, she added quietly: “And I wonder if Guy will forgive it either.”

                                            ---------------------------------------------------------------------

She only had a heartbeat in which to decide.

Meg let her hand slide from the horse’s neck – escape so close, beneath her fingertips! Vaisey, steps away, gave a predatory leer. She ducked beneath the animal’s neck, intending to use it’s bulk as a shield.

“Now come,” he said briskly. “You want me to chase you? A little undignified, don’t you think?”

The horse flattened its ears at the sound of his voice.

“Let’s just dispense with these games, shall we? My allies will be here any moment. And if you come quietly, I’ll offer you my protection. Without that, I fear they may find you a little too….tempting? They’ve had a most active evening. I might just need to let them have their fun. And if they need to hunt you down - well, I suspect that will just add a little spice, don’t you?”

While he spoke, Vaisey sheathed his sword, and reached for the horse’s reins. It was the opening Meg needed. She whipped the pottery shard from her garment and slashed at Vaisey’s extended hand.

“You will pay for that,” Vaisey snarled, through a grimace of pain.

Meg snatched the reins, hauling herself up into the saddle on the far side. Vaisey grabbed for the reins again, but the horse shied away from the torch, which was still in the sheriff’s grip. One-handed, Meg opened the blanket she clutched, awkwardly flinging out its contents. But it had the desired effect; the brittle palm-debris showered down over the torch, making its flame flare. The horse reared, but Meg kept her seat. In the confusion – blanket, tinder, skittish horse – Vaisey lost control of the torch. He shrieked; Meg didn’t wait to see what had happened but urged the animal forward.  

They navigated the lanes leading away from the square, turn after laborious turn, Meg’s whispered urgings mingling with her whimpers of terror. The pursuit would be upon them any minute. They reached a gap and Meg sensed the wide-open spaces right there, liberty beckoning them forward.

Her mount seemed as eager as she to escape. She set it’s face she knew and cared not where and it sprang forward, galloping out into the desert night in a whirl of panicked flight, the whip of its mane and the cold air tearing her eyes, embracing the unknown in her determination to escape the devil that lurked behind.

                                         ----------------------------------------------------------------------

There was something eerily familiar about this….the pre-dawn darkness, the stirrings of a new day beginning to ruffle the pall of quiet. Not enough activity, yet, that a man couldn’t move unnoticed through the camp. Especially so if he was one meant to be there which, Robin knew, this assailant would be.

He would be a man seen often with the king, perhaps a member of the guard….nothing unusual, to be seen about camp, or near the king’s tent. And easy enough to slip inside, undetected.

Soft-shifting gauze, shielding the interior, floated in air currents that could have been a ghostly hand, draping fabric across spectral limbs. Through this veil, Robin watched for sign of any approach. Not only the darkness inside the tent but a curtained alcove hid him from view. It reminded him of another time….how strange it was that this time, too, Gisborne was involved. At least, now, they were on the same side.

And this time, Robin was forewarned and waiting. This time, he was ready.

Ready when a shadow, cloaked in stealth, flickered so swiftly across his vision that Robin might have discounted it had he not been watching for exactly such a movement. Then nothing, just moments of charged silence, of waiting, until the shadow resolved itself into a figure which crossed the threshold of the king’s tent and lifted the gauze with one hand, his other holding a drawn blade.

Not only Robin waited but Carter, concealed behind the king’s stand of armour. The figure paused, listening; then he straightened, no doubt believing that the threat of detection was past. The only risks he would expect now would be those posed by a victim not sunk deeply enough in his sleep.

His victim….

…Robin’s liege, his king, and – if ever he could be persuaded to return home – England’s saviour….

That a man could follow this king into battle, could sup at his side and join in his war counsels, could know of his aims and his trials and yet by all this remain unmoved, planning like the worst kind of Judas to slip a cowardly blade into him as he _slept_ ….

….the enormity of this betrayal plunged Robin forward. He recognised the assailant now, from hair and build, the Templar James. At the same moment, Carter burst from hiding. James, senses alert, reacted instantly, sword raised to meet the attack. But facing it from two sides, even a Templar’s skill and instincts couldn’t save him. He opened his hand, letting the blade fall, and resorted to guile instead.

“Ah….Huntingdon…thank the Lord it’s you. I learned his Majesty was in danger and was come to protect him.”

“Save it for the King, if he grants you trial,” Robin grated, as Carter produced bonds and began looping them around the traitor’s wrists.

“Listen – it’s true. I’m telling you, there’s an assassin coming for him right now, a man dressed as….”

“Enough lies,” Robin shouted.

Furious, he shoved the would-be regicide back and as James toppled Robin stooped down, hauling him up until their faces almost met, and the breath of both men misted the dagger which Robin held to his throat.  It wasn’t mercy - or even Carter’s urgent “Robin!” - but the need for information which kept him from dispensing what the traitor deserved. He released James and stood, breathing heavily, swiping one hand across his jaw as he fought for calm.

“We know about the plot,” he told him. “We know you’re in league with Vaisey.”

Robin paused, still settling.

“In fact, I’d wager we know more about his ways and methods than you do,” he continued.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

Robin drew in a deep breath; he turned and strode into the next compartment. It gave him the space he needed. And then, a quiet voice from the depths of the curtained bedchamber, helping him to focus:

“You must question him.”

Hands on his hips, Robin collected himself, and went back to do just that.

“Listen.” He knelt beside the man, speaking quietly now. “You know what they do to traitors? To regicides? They will have you hung, drawn and quartered, a death any man of sense would pray to avoid. We have all the evidence we need. Help us, and you can earn a reprieve – the headsman’s axe.”

Even in the dark, he could see James blanch. But the rogue Crusader wasn’t persuaded.

“Your idea of mercy, Huntingdon?” he spat. “I’m telling you, I’m not your man.”

A noise outside then – a step, closer than any other should be at that hour – made him pause, and they all looked up.

“Speak of the devil, here he is now,” uttered James. “Your king-killer.”

                                             --------------------------------------------------------------------

Nasir had ridden this way with Guy several nights earlier and shown him – from a distance -  what his point of entry would be, where the sentries would be murdered so that he could slip into the camp unnoticed.  

Guy sat his mount now on a low dune, irritably adjusting the armoured jerkin - the _hauberc jaseran_ \- which Robin had sourced, in case everything should go wrong. It sat uncomfortably beneath his borrowed surcoat. He was pretty sure, one way or another, that he was going to be dead by morning. _Might as well be comfortable_ , he thought bitterly, tugging at the garments again.

The morning, he realised, wasn’t too far off. His task had been set for the fourth watch and that was now well advanced. Shapes still retained the obscurity of night, but the barest hint of light now lay on the horizon, outlining the date palms to the east where the oasis lay. Guy’s path led straight ahead. He dismounted, tying the horse to a desiccated shrub, and approached the king’s camp on foot.

He'd refused to swap out boots, but spur-less his own trod soundlessly across the sand as he strode, with as much confidence as he could muster, towards the latrines which had been dug at the edge of the camp. The conspirators had chosen this as the easiest place to explain being seen, if he were challenged.

No challenge awaited. Nasir and his men had been thorough; there was no sign of sentries, alive or dead, and no traces of struggle. Guy strode on. He slipped through the lines of tents, enough assurance in his step to ensure that should he be seen it would be assumed that his presence was legitimate.

He turned one corner and collided with a lone servant; the clatter of dropped firewood made Guy’s heart race.

“Watch where you’re going,” he growled, and walked on.

Out of the man’s sight he ducked behind a tent, waiting for the hammer-beat of panic to subside. But the man raised no alarm. Using the moment to get his bearings, Guy recalled Robin’s instructions about the layout of the camp. Using the faint sheen in the east to orient himself, he resumed walking, following a path through the precise rows of tents towards the hub of the camp where the king’s tent would be.

Once he had it in sight, Guy’s nerve failed him. He slid into the deepest shadows he could find, fighting despair. Hardly the bedfellow of success but, there it was: a leaden certainty that, whatever he did here, Vaisey would win. He always did.

Should he do it? Kill the Lionheart, and save Meg?  Guy snorted softly. And then what? Suppose the sheriff let Meg live….he would be dead, Meg left with the image of him torn limb from limb. His only and best hope for himself in that case would be that Robin might skewer him, in a fit of rage and grief, before it could come to that.

And if they followed through with their plan, managing to save the king? Vaisey would vent his rage on Meg. She would be dead when word reached him, no doubt not long after the sun, which would all too soon slash the horizon with light, appeared. Guy knew he had no answers, no hope, no plan.

So, he would act as he always did. He would do as he must. He left his cover and made his way up into the king’s tent.

“….your king-killer,” he heard, as he entered.

Guy saw a grey-haired Crusader, bound, Robin on one knee beside him.

“Has he told you anything yet?” Guy demanded, striding over and hauling the traitor to his feet.

Dagger drawn, Guy slammed him back onto the ground.

“Blame me for your dirty work, would you?” he snarled.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the Crusader sneered. Guy’s grip on his throat tightened; the man panted out his next words. “But….you’re here…and armed…”

“To be your scapegoat,” roared Guy.

His blade-wielding hand drew back, ready for the killing thrust.

“Wait!”

Robin’s hand had shot out, gripping his wrist.

“What are you doing? Get off me.” Guy shook his arm, incensed. “He deserves it.”

“Wait,” repeated Robin. “He can help us.”

Guy paused, listening.

“How?”

“I told you,” persisted James. “I don’t know….”

“Shut up.” “Shut it.”

In unison.

“Now you listen to me,” Robin went on. He knelt by the Crusader, tapping his own blade against his palm. “Deny it all you want, but I’d be doing you a favour if I let Gisborne here do as he was about to. He’s working with us. So we have the evidence. We know you planned regicide with Vaisey. But I think His Majesty will want something even more special for you. For a man who planned to betray not only his king but the entire army, he might just let them have you. After all, they will be baying for your blood.”

Guy watched confusion crack the Crusader’s façade.

“The army? Now I know you’re mad, Huntingdon.”

“Am I?” murmured Robin. “Am I indeed? Then let’s suppose you’re telling the truth. About this, at least. Let’s suppose you don’t know that for the last two months Vaisey has had a girl lodged as a servant with the Sultan’s pigeon-handler. As a spy, yes, to find out all she can about the Sultan’s troop dispositions, codes, anything useful. But more than that. She’d been given a task, one she was to carry out as soon as word reached her of the King’s death.”

No protestations from the traitor, Guy noticed; just a minute shake of the head, almost involuntary.

“She was to send a pigeon to the Sultan,” Robin went on, “alerting him to the regicide, telling him to strike swiftly - that the Crusader army was his for the taking.”

The head-shake grew more emphatic.

“No….no. I knew nothing of this.”

“Really?” purred Robin. “But surely – you are his ally? Surely Vaisey wouldn’t leave you here, without warning, to be caught up in such slaughter?”

“You’re lying.” The Crusader made the effort to rally himself. Then, more strongly: “You’re lying. Why would he have bothered with all this,” – he waved a hand at Guy, who noted smugly that this now amounted to a confession – “with providing a scapegoat, if I wasn’t going to get away?”

Guy snorted.

“Would you have done it under any other circumstances?”

The man’s features registered the truth of this, in the light from the lamp Carter had lit. He tried to rise, but Guy lifted a booted foot and placed it - heavily - on his chest.

“If you let me go, if you let me live, I’ll give you Vaisey,” panted the Crusader. “I know where he is.”

“James.”

All eyes swung to the king, who had entered the tent from outside. At the same time, Much – the decoy, in case one was needed - emerged from the royal bedchamber.

The king went on, almost sadly.

“James…. you know that’s impossible. No one plots to kill his sovereign and lives.”

Guy didn’t miss the glance the king directed his way. It seemed neutral, but he still had to raise the leg which pinned down James and plant it firmly on the ground to quell its sudden tremor.

“Majesty. My King.” Released from the weight of Guy’s boot, the Crusader prostrated himself at the king’s feet. “Forgive me, it wasn’t my…..”

“Get up, worm.” The king shook him off. “I’ve no interest in anything you have to say, unless it’s to deliver your co-conspirators. Grant us that, and you’ll earn a swift death. That’s all I can promise.”

“Majesty,” burst out Carter, “how can you be so calm?”

A regal hand lifted, demanding silence.

“Well?”

Eyes flitting from one hostile face to another, finally returning to rest on the king, the traitor’s resistance folded.

“Very well. A village to the north, Imuiz. At sunrise I was to send my squire there….”

“…who of course wouldn’t survive,” grated Robin.

“….with news of the outcome. Vaisey will be there now, waiting.”

“And you’re sure of this?”

“Yes, Majesty.”

“Very well.”

The king stepped forward, a move so swift Guy scarcely caught it, delivering a blistering punch to the man’s gut. His hand came away covered in blood; it had borne a blade. James crumpled, hands pressing over the wound, mumbling incoherently. Like the lid lifting on a bubbling pot, Guy caught a glimpse of the rage that simmered beneath the kingly composure; this was a man he wouldn’t choose to cross blades with. And yet not once, but twice, he had been commissioned to murder this king in his bed. These were deeds, he knew,that might yet cost him.

“Calm?” The king was saying; he had turned towards Carter. “No, pragmatic. You think I don’t feel it, here….” and Richard palmed his breast….”when men who proclaim their loyalty, who owe me life and fealty and all else besides, conspire to betray me, would even _kill me in my sleep?_ Calm? No, Carter. I am not calm.”

The Lionheart turned back to the groaning Crusader. He knelt, gripping the back of the man’s head, forcing him to meet his gaze.

“You know, I don’t even need to know why, James. I don’t care what canker gets into a man’s heart, that would have him betray his king.”

He shoved the Crusader back down and rose.

“All I know is that it must be ripped out,” the king went on. “And when we get back, I will take great pleasure in doing it myself.”

“Wait, sire…..when we get back?” Robin asked.

“Yes. Send for someone, Robin,” the king replied. “Have this filth locked away, until we make sure the Sheriff of Nottingham is where he says he’ll be. Then I will see the end of these Black Knights. And of _him_.”

“But sire, surely we can….”

“Robin, don’t waste your breath. You know I’m coming. I know Imuiz, and I’ll either come back with Vaisey’s head on my saddle, or not at all.”

With this, the king called for his squire; they would meet forthwith. As they raced with Much and Carter for the horses, Guy harangued Robin.

“So, let me get this straight,” he said, sourly. “We come all this way to protect him, and yet he’s going straight to Vaisey? Can’t you stop him?”

Robin shrugged.

“Others have tried; it never works,” he huffed. “All we can do is keep him alive. Come on.”

Guy commandeered a mount from the lines; no time to retrieve his own. He told the groom where to find it, so the animal could be brought in for tending.  

“You know,” Robin said, swinging up into the saddle, “Carter thinks this might be where they’re holding Meg. We just never knew the name of the village, until now.”

“Then let’s go,” urged Guy, needlessly.

Lamenting his lack of spurs, he kicked the mare and surged after Robin. They rode to where the Lionheart – astride his destrier, impatient to be gone – emerged like a djinn from the dark sands, and they rode north in haste, as dawn began to shred the night and lay another day upon it’s fading shroud.                                    

 

 

 

 


	24. Falling Dice

Robin halted them in a gully. Dismounting, they scrambled up the dune to lie prone and peer over it. A half-mile distant there lay a cluster of monochrome buildings, blending with its desert surrounds in the lightening air.

“They’ll hear us coming,” Much observed, “if we ride in.”

“Exactly. Which is why we leave the horses and walk,” said Robin.

He glanced at the king; he was tempted to try and persuade him to wait here, until they’d flushed out the traitors and had the situation under control. But he knew better. Robin had ridden with the king often enough, in battle and skirmish, to witness the reckless bravery which incited equal parts exasperation and admiration in his generals. He wasn’t called the Lionheart for nothing. _All we can do is keep him alive_.  An echo of his Crusader past - a motto of the king’s guard, oft-repeated in tones of frustration ranging from bemused to surly.

He would be hard put to do this today. Thinking fast, Robin made his dispositions.

“Much and Carter, ride to the east; Guy, you’re with us. We’ll go west. Don’t be seen, any of you – enter on foot. They won’t be expecting anyone. We’ll work in towards the centre, check all…..”

“Wait, Robin.” Richard held up a hand. “Listen.”

Behind them, from the direction of Acre, riders approached. Cresting the dune behind, Robin saw that it was the gang. Bassam, who had been leading them, halted on the peak. He raised a hand to Robin, then disappeared, returning the way they’d come.

They reined in, wind-blown from the ride: Marian, Little John, Will, Djaq.

“We think Meg is here,” Marian said. Then, recalling herself, she slid from the horse and swept her split tunic aside in a curtsy. “Majesty.”

The others dismounted; each dropped to one knee.

“We’re happy to see you alive and well,” she said, including both Robin and Guy in this with a sideways glance.

“If no Saracen blade’s seen to it otherwise,” the king replied, “I’ll be damned if your sheriff manages it.”

“I’d give anything to see that he _wasn’t_ our sheriff, Sire.”

“He won’t be, after today. You have my word on that.”

Marian nodded, then turned to Robin:

“So, what’s the plan?”

He outlined it, adding:

“You four can go from here…Marian, wait. What are you doing?”

He wasn’t quick enough. Marian had remounted; Robin lunged but Marian had urged the horse forward out of reach. He scrambled up the peak.

“We don’t know how many there are,” she called, from the other side. “They’d pick you off one by one…you need a distraction. I’ll draw them out….they won’t see a lone woman as a threat.” 

“Marian…..”

His shout was lost in her wake.  The outlaws scrambled down the dune. Only Guy and the king had made it onto horseback; Richard thundered past them.

Robin smacked Much’s shoulder, mad with frustration.

“No, not a threat,” he ground out. “Another hostage, yes.”

Guy was leading Robin’s horse down the dune.

“There goes our element of surprise,” muttered Guy.

Grimly, without replying, Robin swung astride. Their mounts leapt forward, charging after Marian and the king, the outlaws gaining their mounts and falling in behind in a ragtag column until Robin’s wild over-head gesture told them to split, some to the west, and some to the east.

                                          ---------------------------------------------------------------------------

The village was eerily silent as they galloped in. No sign of Marian, or the king. Had it been done already? Guy wondered. Was it over, so soon, so simply? He dismounted, taking hold of the bow he’d grabbed while at the king’s camp, anticipating need of its greater range.

“Where is everyone?” he rasped.

An arrow fired towards them was his answer; they dived for cover.

“We have to find them, get the king out,” Robin said urgently. “I’ll go this way. Keep him busy.”

He ran at a crouch for the nearest alley. Guy located the archer, pinning him down with a swift shot of his own. Sensing a stalemate, the Saracen ducked out of sight, back into the maze of village streets. Guy waited, scanning windows and stair-landings for movement. Finding none, he began to feel exposed; out here, his cover was only as good as his knowledge of the enemy’s location. Without that, he was a sitting target.

He ran for a gap in the buildings. Guy followed where the alley led, keeping his back to the wall and his senses primed. The village was the perfect trap: endless places for concealment, each corner an opportunity for ambush. He speculated, briefly, that Robin must be furious with Marian. But then Guy heard a yell; the victim’s agony was unmistakeable. He rounded a corner, and stepped out into a wide square, and all thoughts scattered from his mind but one as he saw the king’s dark horse walk into the square, the Lionheart lying across its withers, his cloak trailing the ground and an arrow protruding from his back. Guy watched, appalled, as the king slid from its back down onto the sand.

Some action was required of him now, Guy knew. As his steps drove him forward he felt uneasy, disoriented. Years of Vaisey’s ambition, of listening to his plots, of being the instrument to carry them out….of Vaisey drilling into him the necessity of killing this king not only as a path to power but because he was, to the English, a worthless king –  “one who cares nothing for his people….he lets a foreign war pick them off like unwanted scabs, while the rest…well the rest, dear boy, they are here for you and I to do with as we wish.”

And yet here he was, striding into the square with the intention of protecting this same king, the Lionheart, who now lay weak and bleeding not far from where he stood.

Then he realised it wasn’t just the voice of memory hammering in his ears, but Vaisey’s actual voice. He was on a rooftop, across the far side of the square, an arrow strung in his bow. He was pacing back and forth, both Guy’s presence and the fountain in the centre of the square blocking him from a clear shot.

“What are you waiting for,” the sheriff yelled. “Go on, kill him.”

Guy stood immobile, his gaze fixed on Vaisey. He was trapped here, out in the open, as trapped as he ever was, because he knew exactly what Vaisey would say next.

“I don’t know how you managed it, but you have failed me again,” shouted the sheriff. “So, do it. Do it _now_ , and I will let your woman live.”

Guy hesitated. Vaisey was lying. He was lying as he always was. If he killed the king…..

“….do it or get out of the way so I have a clear shot.” Vaisey’s voice rose in pitch, a mallet pounding his will, grinding him into confusion. “Otherwise, I have a Saracen waiting who will slit her pretty little throat.”

Guy’s gaze wavered. He glanced at the king….

“Gisborne, I’m warning you. I’ve told him to play with her a little first…make her scream….make her beg…..so, go on.”

Guy spun back, and the red rush of anger this provoked was more than he knew what to do with. Disgust welled up in him - years of serving this man’s whims, of being both the brunt and the instrument of his malice, of carrying out his vile designs. He was sick of it all, of the waste it had made of his life, of the things he’d been forced to do in Vaisey’s service. And now, this – to callously take someone he cared for, to threaten to degrade and kill Meg as if she were nought, when in fact she was _everything_ …..

“You _lie_ ,” he roared, the words hoarse in his throat.

He couldn’t know this for sure. Guy didn’t know if Robin or the outlaws would get to her in time. But the rage that swelled in him wouldn’t be gainsaid. Cornered, here at the last, he raised the bow and took aim at his tormentor.

But Vaisey was quicker.

An arrow thumped in, harrowingly near his neck. Guy bellowed, clutching at it. Two in quick succession, the second to his leg.

He fell.

                                                 -----------------------------------------------------------------

How had it all gone so wrong?

It was Robin, needing to protect her.

In Marian’s head, it had all made perfect sense: she would ride into the village, draw out Vaisey and his men, and the gang would enter the village from the east and the west as planned and trap the traitors from behind.

How could she know that the king would come charging after her? And of course, with both her and the king to protect, that Robin would abandon his carefully laid plans and follow them into the village?

And this was where it had led.

She’d heard the king’s yell. Who wouldn’t have? Sensing a tragedy about to unfold she had paused, listened. Was this the end of it all? Did Vaisey win after all and horribly, unbelievably, the king of England was dead?

It couldn’t be true.

Marian ran, nimble and fleet, seeking the injured king. But she saw no one. She’d ended up well to the east of the village, so she ran back towards the square. Skidding around a corner, she heard voices…Vaisey, yelling at someone. He was nearby.  She couldn’t make out his words, but the tone was frantic.

Closer. She was getting closer. Another corner, and she saw the steps which led up to the roof he was on.

“Gisborne, I’m warning you….”

Marian could hear what he was saying now. Taunting Guy. Without pause for thought, she raced up the steps, in time to see Vaisey nock an arrow.

She ripped her dagger from its sheath and threw it, with a deadly aim.

But not in time to stop the arrow’s flight.

                                              --------------------------------------------------------------

Someone had been struck.

_The king_.

Robin heard the shout, while grappling with the Saracen whose blow had knocked him down. He struggled, but half-dazed could only claw at the grip about his neck. Before he could gain any traction, a shadow fell across them. The man glanced up.

“Get off him,” Much said, mildly.

There was nothing mild in the mighty swing of his sword, which cleaved the Saracen’s head from his neck. It dropped and rolled; Much placed a booted foot on the trunk and heaved the corpse backwards.

“Thanks.”

Robin, his jerkin splattered with blood, hauled himself up.

“Don’t mention it,” said Much.

And then they were running.

Was it the king? Was the wound mortal? Robin could hear shouting – the sheriff’s voice – coming from the square. They pelted through the streets, charging into the square with Vaisey’s taunts raining down from the rooftop…..

“….otherwise, I have a Saracen waiting who will slit her pretty little throat.”

Meg. Vaisey had her here somewhere.

Robin dropped to one knee, bow at the ready, an arrow nocked. He had no choice. Even with the threat to Meg, he had no choice but to protect the king. If Guy moved out of the way, giving Vaisey a clear shot…..or worse. After everything, was it still possible that Guy would obey the sheriff? He saw Gisborne waver, glancing behind him at Richard.

“Gisborne, I’m warning you. I’ve told him to play with her a little first…make her scream….make her beg…..so, go on.”

Guy broke, then. And everything turned to hell.

“You _lie_!” Guy yelled.

He turned his bow on Vaisey, but the sheriff let off a shot, taking Guy between neck and shoulder. Robin hesitated. As Vaisey was loading a second arrow, he heard an urgent voice from above.

“Robin – a rider.” It was Little John.

“Who?” he demanded, without glancing up.

“It’s a woman.”

Distracted, he did look up then, just for a moment.

“Is it Meg?”

“Can’t be sure.”

No more time. Robin took the shot, just as Vaisey let fly his second.

Guy dropped, twice-wounded. Vaisey – Robin’s arrow through his chest, and a dagger….where had that come from? – stuck clean through his neck, toppled forward, pitching from the roof.

Robin, with Much two paces ahead, ran into the square to where Guy lay, but not ahead of the rider who charged into the square and dismounted at a run.

                                           ------------------------------------------------------------------------

The wounds burned, flames scorching through his body. It made it hard to think but, blessedly, Guy decided that there was no need.

Commotion. He heard shouts, then hoofbeats and frantic feet and suddenly Meg was there, kneeling by him, with her hair falling onto his face.

Guy thought a sneeze might kill him. He should tell her to brush it away, he thought, but no words would come. Besides, it didn’t matter. She was weeping over him, her hands shaking, fluttering over his body. He didn’t know how it had come about but she was there, which meant that she was safe.

Others came.

Robin, dropping to one knee beside him.

“You saved the king,” he said.

Which was almost meaningless to Guy. His world, in that moment, had shrunk to white-hot lancelets of pain, and to Meg.

_She is here._

And with that knowledge Guy closed his eyes, letting the flames of pain carry him away.

 

 


	25. Scales

_Never pull out the arrow_.  Every soldier knew that.

Guy was dimly aware that the man assigned the task was the king’s physician. Ginger-haired and lean, he bent over him with his implements and a matter-of-fact authority which did nothing to reassure; Guy had seen enough arrow wounds to know what was in store.

Two arrows. One through his leg, another lodged by his collarbone.

“Not deep, that one,” he heard the physician say, “the armour stopped it penetrating far. The leg worries me more.”

Meg was there, stroking his hand. Djaq had been heating water over a brazier, soaking a sponge which was wrung out and placed under his nose. The fumes lulled, but not enough that he didn’t feel the first, light touch on the wound. He howled, unintelligibly, wishing Meg gone – he didn’t want her to see him like this - even as he gripped her hand with whatever passed for strength now. He didn’t know.

“For pity’s sake, Djaq, won’t it do anything more?” Meg cried.

“Patience. Look - it’s working. Soon he’ll feel nothing.”

Later, they brought him back with a sponge soaked in vinegar. But the next time he slipped from consciousness, it wasn’t due to any sponge, and he didn’t wake. He slept through that night, and the next day, but it wasn’t a healing sleep, nor a gentle one. He threshed, sweated. Time shifted in meaningless patterns, like sand burrowing in from the desert, filling cracks, filming water, settling on surfaces.

People came and went; shadowy figures. Some he could identify.

“Will he be alright? Tell me, Djaq.” Meg’s voice, soothing - just for a moment - his erratic breaths.

“If this passes before tomorrow, then yes.” Djaq. “I’ve seen it before - men take fever from the stress of their wounds. But if not, then it may be an infection. In which case…we will do all we can. In the meantime, we must keep him comfortable. Make sure he has plenty to drink.”

Meg caressed his forehead; her hand, cool on heated skin. Placing and renewing tepid cloths, administering drinks, some bitter on his tongue, she also helped Djaq change his poultices and bandages, and when this was done Meg would stay with him, her fingertips sometimes tracing a tender path over his cheekbones and his brow.  

Still people came and went. Once, in his drifting state, he heard a new voice. Something about the tone of replies in the tent told him this was someone different. But by the time he realised that the Lionheart himself had been to visit, the king had gone.

Even in his fevered state, Guy wondered why the king had been. But his thoughts wouldn’t knit together, any more than his body would do aught but ache and tremble. And so he lay there, blocking everything out except Meg’s sweet touch and her murmurs of affection, knowing that there was every chance that these might be withdrawn from him once she discovered what he had done.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

Marian paced, though the tent – filled with muted sunlight – gave little scope for it.

Robin was late. He was angry with her, Marian knew; furious, in fact. But they hadn’t argued. Instead he’d just disappeared, to sit with the king while he recovered, apprising him - she supposed - of events in England.

It would all change now; surely everything would change.

Because Vaisey was dead. Her own dagger had seen to that, along with Robin’s arrow. Surely the king would dismantle the Black Knights – perhaps he would even come home.

If he survived.

And Guy, too. He lay injured, racked with fever. She remembered her horror, as she ran to the edge of that roof, at seeing Guy prone in the dust; how swiftly she had run down, to watch as a litter bore the king away, to watch Meg’s tears fall across Guy in his Crusader disguise. The whole scene had seemed surreal, as if with the brush of light across the square the rising sun had also left a cloying strangeness in its wake. Most dreamlike of all had been the moment when she went and stood over the sheriff. Vaisey’s eyes had glared upwards, sightlessly defiant.

Marian had wanted to rejoice. She’d expected to feel elated that here, at last, the sheriff had been vanquished. But while two lives yet hung in the balance, it was too soon. Perhaps, after all, Vaisey had struck one final, devastating blow.

Robin had been gone for hours. A tiny fear needled her; she suspected that Richard would like to keep Robin here. She’d heard men speak of him, heard how much they admired him. She knew Robin would never be willing. But still, it didn’t stop her worrying. What if Richard commanded it, even for a few months? She wished Robin would hurry up and return, to set her fears at rest.

And there was something else she wanted to discuss with him: an idea which she’d had about Guy.

When Robin did return, he flopped down on the narrow cot, hands behind his head, and fixed her with a pensive look.

“What?” she said, defensively.

“You disobeyed me,” he said, his voice soft. “You put everyone, including yourself, including the king, at risk.”

Marian took exception to this.

“You can’t blame me for that,” she said heatedly. “How was I to know that he would follow me?”

“What,” snorted Robin, “that a warrior-king wouldn’t stand by and let a woman precede him into battle?”

She saw the trouble in Robin’s eyes and relented. Marian well knew that she’d been in the wrong.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it. I’ve tried to change, I truly have….”

“Come here,” was all Robin said.

Marian went to him. They fit snugly together, there being little room on the pallet. He lifted her hand and, turning it over, pressed his lips to her palm.

“Don’t change too much. Just don’t be so reckless. And try and do what I say, will you, when the gang’s involved?”

His beard grazed the skin of her neck, pleasantly so. Marian read, straight away, what he intended. When he glanced up, her own need for comfort, in the aftermath of all that had happened, answered his. It was stronger than desire, although that was there too.

“Anyone could walk in, you know,” she grumbled.

But she soon forgot to care.

Afterwards, with limbs draped languidly, bare skin glistening in the tent’s muted glow, Marian nestled against his chest and sighed.

“What is it?” asked Robin, stroking her hair. “Are you worried about Gisborne?”

“Of course. Aren’t you?”

“Yes. Although Djaq says the wounds seem clean. And he was lucky, the arrow just cracked his collarbone. Without the armour, it could have shattered.”

“Robin, I’ve been thinking.”

“Dangerous….” murmured Robin.

Marian prodded his chest.

“Be serious. He saved the king, you know. Even with Vaisey threatening Meg. And with Vaisey gone….”

“I know what you’re going to suggest. That the king appoints him sheriff.”

“Yes! Then you think so too?”

Robin slowly shook his head.

“The people would never accept him.”

“I think they would, over time. Especially if they see that you are supporting him.”

“I’m not sure the king will overlook the fact that he tried to kill him once before.”

“Nonsense. He saved his life,” Marian said stoutly. “Please Robin, will you do this? Try and convince the king?”

“If you ask it, my love. But don’t be too hopeful. I’m not sure that this one act will sway the king. It doesn’t wipe out all his other crimes.”

“You are persuasive. The king will listen to you. We owe it to Guy, Robin, and so does Richard.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

Guy wasn’t sure what time of day it was. He surfaced slowly, a foul taste being the first sensation to greet him. It was quickly followed by others: a weariness that seemed to seep from his bones, and stabs of pain that accompanied even the smallest movement.

“Here, drink.” Djaq passed him a beaker. His throat made the motions reluctantly; the liquid was tepid, but refreshing. “Slowly.”

It was too late. Muscles constricted, and he coughed. The pain made his vision cloud. Djaq placed the rescued beaker on a low table by the bed.

“You’re lucky,” she told him, as she began to carefully unwind the sling that held his arm in place.

Guy glanced down. Where the bandages came to an end across his shoulder, and on his bicep, the flesh had bruised a sickly green.  

“It nicked your collarbone,” Djaq went on, unwinding the bandages. “Without the armour, it could have done a great deal worse.”

The irony of this statement was punctuated by the barbs of pain which every movement shot through his shoulder and his leg. He closed his eyes, as Djaq did whatever it was she needed to do. Once the poultice was changed she stayed there, quietly perusing scrolls, mixing herbs. He watched her a while, through half-closed, drowsing eyes, and must have slept again because when next he woke it was early evening. He could tell by the amount of activity in the camp, by the smells of cooking, and by the buttery quality of the light that flooded the tent.

Aware that he was awake, Djaq glanced up.

“Do you want to know what happened?” she asked him.

Guy swallowed; at least one movement, he thought sourly, that didn’t hurt. It was true; he had no idea what had happened in that courtyard after he fell.

What he recalled was bad enough. Vaisey had shot him. Twice. Had the sheriff’s aim been more certain, he would have been dead. As it was, he could only assume Vaisey had released his arrows in haste, simply wanting Guy out of the way. Not even of enough consequence, in the end, to warrant a square aim. Just an impediment. Expendable.

As Meg had been, it seemed, to him. Guilt entwined itself through his thoughts, guilt that in his act of protest, one of blind, impotent rage, all thought of protecting her had fled. Like a cornered animal, acting on instinct, he had turned on Vaisey. Yet even in this, he had been unsuccessful. Was Vaisey still alive? Was the king?

Guy gave a minute shake of his head, trying to dislodge the questions that buzzed like midges in his brain. He was weary, and in considerable pain, and they seemed more an irritant that he could do without than the facts upon which life, death and his future hung.

He was saved from asking them when Will Scarlet - dark-eyed and scowling – came and drew Djaq away. Guy closed his eyes. Did Meg know what he’d done? Disquiet lurked beneath the physical pain, permeating it, like the late-afternoon light that washed relentlessly over his closed eyelids.

He heard the Saracen return, bringing with her a comfortable silence. He found that he was glad of her quiet, no-nonsense presence.

“He still hates me,” Guy observed after some time, not bothering to open his eyes.

“I thought you were asleep,” she said.

Guy grunted. The wind had picked up, whipping the tent-flap free of its restraint. Djaq rose to fix it.

“The sheriff killed his father,” she said matter-of-factly, as she resumed her seat. “He spoke out against the pestilence.”

Another silence, broken at length by Guy.

“I remember,” he said. His voice rasped from disuse.

Upon opening his eyes, he found Djaq giving him an inscrutable look.

“Good,” she said. “You will need to start paying attention to things like that.”

Still fuzzy from his sickness, Guy tried for a moment to puzzle this out. Then he abandoned the effort.

“Stop talking in riddles, woman,” he grumbled. “What do you mean?”

But the Saracen would say nothing further on the subject.

“The king is safe. He is recovering, as you are, from his wound,” she volunteered instead.

The news leeched into a silence that framed the next question, one Guy couldn’t ask. After all this time…after everything….would he finally be free, in a way that went beyond even a change in his allegiances?

“And the sheriff is dead,” Djaq added, reading his hesitation. “With Robin’s arrow in his chest, and Marian’s dagger through his neck.”

“Dead,” Guy repeated, wetting dry lips.

The Saracen noticed. She brought him a cup of water, holding it to his mouth.

“Be careful this time,” she instructed.

When he was done, she helped him lie back. He lay, staring at the ceiling. He lay there and felt the chains which had bound him miraculously begin to loosen and slip away. Their marks would not fade so readily, he knew. Those were years the cost of which would be counted not in the numbering of days, but in the scars that they had left upon his soul.

“I’m glad,” was all he said. And then he slept again.

When he woke, Meg was there, leaning on the bed beside him. He began the mental inventory of the ache and burn of wounds which assaulted him on waking.

“About time,” she said, smiling.

She was wan, he saw, the skin beneath her eyes bruised and hollow from lack of sleep. Her tangled hair was in more disarray than ever; he lifted his hand – the undamaged arm - catching a curling strand which fell across her breast, twining it around his finger. This small gesture moved Meg; she turned her face away, but not before he noticed the gleam of her tears.

Abruptly, he shook the strand free.

“Don’t weep for me,” he said gruffly. “I don’t deserve it.”

Meg looked back at him, startled.

“What do you mean? I saw what you did, you kept Vaisey from shooting the king. It was well done.”

“Well done?” he croaked. “Him threatening you with rape and a slit throat….and I turned on him?”

“What else could you do?”

Guy’s lip curled in self-disgust.

“I could have had the wits to try and find a way to protect you,” he retorted.

“How? By letting him kill the king? What sort of foolish notion is that?” Meg said hotly. “Do you think I could have lived with myself, if I knew that the cost of my life had been the king’s?”

“And you know what would have happened,” put in Djaq, who had entered at that moment. “Vaisey would have sent his message to the Sultan and unleashed a bloodbath. None of us would be sitting here today.”

“So, can we please forget about this nonsense? Besides, we’ve something else to discuss….I’ve some news for you,” Meg went on. “The king is planning to reward you, for what you did. It was Marian’s idea.”

“What was?”

“They plan to make you sheriff.”

Guy almost laughed, but mindful of the pain this would involve he contained it. The irony was painful enough.

“No thanks,” he muttered.

Meg looked at him steadily.

“I hoped you might say that.”

Guy’s gaze snapped to her face.

“You did? Why?”

Meg shrugged.

“You’ve talked about leaving the shire. The more I think about it, the more the idea appeals to me.” She reached out, linking their fingers together.

But Djaq, who was busy wrapping flax wads - the physician cleaned his wounds with these, a process Guy dreaded as he dabbed at them with a paste of herbs and honey – was listening. She peered at him curiously.

“Why would you refuse it?” she asked him.

“Because it’s a death sentence, of course. Prince John will know I’ve betrayed him. You would be wasting your time on me here.”

“But you would have King Richard’s sanction,” Djaq persisted.

“Maybe. But as soon as his attention was diverted elsewhere – which it will be – Prince John would have me killed.”

Djaq looked thoughtful.

“Perhaps there is a way….”

“Leave it,” he said wearily. “Besides, you know I can’t travel like this. Until I heal, we’re stuck here anyway.”

Then Guy looked back at Meg.

“And is this what you want?” he rumbled. “Honestly?”

“Yes,” she replied. “It truly is.”

\------------------------------------------------------

He still moved gingerly, Robin noticed, as Guy sat down opposite. Robin stifled a smile. Guy may have eschewed wearing his leathers, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to adopt the local garb. Clad in black trousers and a dark, loose-laced shirt, with his left arm in a sling, Guy still stood out like a hawk among pigeons.

“You’re late,” Robin observed.

“Directions were rubbish,” retorted Guy.

The tavern, tucked away in the Pisan quarter between a glass-seller and a poison shop, was quiet, it’s midday clientele a mix of bleary-eyed sailors, and a group of traders at the next table mulling over the latest threats to ships heading south.

“Here,” said Robin.

He slid a goblet across the table and poured liberally from a pitcher of wine.

“I gather, at Bassam’s, you’ll still be missing this.”

Guy scooped up the goblet and took a swig.

“It does beat Djaq’s Cornelian cherry, or whatever it is….” Guy grimaced. “Too much of that and I could gnaw my left boot to take away the taste.”

He set the goblet down, shifting to get comfortable.

“Sore?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe. So, the king’s ready to let you go?”

“There’s no need to keep us here any longer. We sail tomorrow morning.” Robin leaned forward on his forearms.

“And you won’t change your mind?” he asked. “It’s not too late.”

Guy shook his head.

“You can see I can’t travel,” Guy replied. “I can’t even sit a horse like this. Besides, I get to stay here and annoy the carpenter – he doesn’t know what to make of me as a fellow house-guest.”

Robin grinned at the sly devilment in Guy’s expression, but he wouldn’t be diverted.

“I don’t mean now, maybe in a month or so. You should be right before the sailing season ends. And the king can put a deputy in for at least that long.”

“No. You know my reasons.”

“Stubborn as ever,” muttered Robin.

“Look, why should it matter to you? You’ve Locksley back, a new sheriff - one appointed by the king…and me out of your hair.”

Robin gulped down a mouthful himself, then he sat turning his goblet in both hands, debating what to say to that.

“We’re on the same side now, remember? And Vaisey’s gone,” he said.

Guy shot him a hard look.

“You’re not worried, then, that I’d abuse the position?” he asked curiously.

“No,” Robin replied. “You’ve proved yourself. And anyway, what would you have to gain? The office comes with land, wealth, power, not to mention the king’s favour….”

“….and the vengeance of his brother.”

Robin sighed.

“Yes. I suppose it does always come back to that.”

They both drank in silence a while.

“So – you know, don’t you,” Robin went on, “that if you decide to come back later, even without the post, that Richard’s granted you land, and title? Once the dust has settled, provided we’re not rubbing his nose in it, I’m sure Prince John will have better things to do than hunt down some local lord living quietly on his estate.”

Guy grunted, non-committal.

“I know, I know,” grinned Robin. “Married man…you have to take your lady wife into account.”

Then, more seriously:

“But look, it’s what you’ve always wanted isn’t it? That’s what it was about, all those years with Vaisey? Land, title?”

Guy narrowed his eyes, the flint in his expression reminding Robin of the old Guy of Gisborne. Mere mention of Vaisey, and the camaraderie which over the weeks had been building between them suddenly seemed, for a moment, as brittle as soaked parchment.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Locksley,” Guy snapped.

Robin tilted back in his chair, raising both hands in mock surrender.

“It’s nothing to me, do what you want. But the offer’s there; the king’s made it, and he’ll stand by it. Here.”

Robin drew a document from a pouch beneath his jerkin and passed it to Guy.

“That’s why I wanted to meet today. And to tell you that we’re leaving. But here’s the letters patent, offering you land and a title to go with it.” Guy hesitated, staring silently at the documents; Robin gave them an impatient shake. “Go on, take them.”

When Guy made no move, he dropped them on the table between them.

“I don’t understand,” he said flatly.

The king’s reward sat there, Guy rolling his goblet between his hands.

“I’ve someone to protect, now.…I’ve let her down once already,” he muttered, not looking up. A pause, to find the right words. “I need to figure it out. What’s best for us. And she wants to stay here, for now. Or at least, away from Nottingham.”

“This may not be the safest place, long term. Besides, you also have someone to support,” Robin pointed out. “There’s a coffer being delivered to Bassam’s later today…when he’s grateful, Richard’s at his most generous. That will see you right for a while, but not indefinitely.”

Guy glanced up. Robin forebore to urge him any further. Was relieved, though, when the other man took up the pouch. Yet he held it with an attitude which was far from the relish which Robin would have expected to see.

“This is your future.” His voice was puzzled. “Your reward. Why aren’t you leaping for it?”

Guy shifted in his seat, holding himself stiffly against the discomfort that dogged his shoulder.

“I can’t leap anywhere at the moment,” he grumbled.

“True,” Robin grinned.

The traders beside them, concluding their meeting, rose to leave. Once their congenial farewells made it out the door, Guy continued.

“It doesn’t wipe out the past, though, does it?” he muttered. “I’m not sure, if I went back, that I could leave it all behind.”

“I know,” ventured Robin. “Vaisey casts a long shadow.”

Guy met this with an ironic glance.

“You don’t say.”

“But look - new beginnings. A new life, with new choices.” Robin paused, debating the wisdom of his next words. “It may not seem like it,” he went on regardless, “but Marian once said to me that everything is a choice. And we can choose – both of us – to leave the past behind.”

Guy looked up, regarding him with a serious expression.

“All of it,” Robin said.  

And as he spoke, gazing at the man opposite, Robin suddenly felt the weight of the history that lay between them.

_Both of us._

Robin turned over in his mind what the substance of that offer meant to him.

A fire, many years ago, started by a youthful Guy.

A Saracen raid, and taking a blade in the side.

Locksley. _He’s stealing my life, Much. And you must let him._

Marian.

Yet now he and Marian were together, wed, and returning to Locksley. And like scales tipping this way and that, weighing justice, against each of these memories a counterweight could now be laid. _An accident, surely? If his own parents were inside_ … Marian’s words, coming back to him. And what burdens must the other man carry, against the regrets which he himself bore of that day?

_What kind of king deserts his people…a weak king._ Words bitten off between blows as they pummelled each other in the forest, until both were too weary and beaten to stand.

“What?”

Guy had seen his wry smile.

“Nothing. Just reminiscing. And thinking about you saving the king the other day.”  

Guy grunted.

“Look, I get it,” Robin went on. “You need time, the chance to get out from under that shadow. To live another life, for a while. But just remember, whenever you are ready, that this other one is waiting. But… it’s your choice.”

“ _Everything is a choice._ That sounds like something Marian would say,” Guy grumbled. “And I’m not sure I believe it. I didn’t have much say, after all, in who I wed.”

The door opened then, allowing a new clutch of patrons to enter, along with a heady scent of spice from the stalls outside. Through the entry, Robin glimpsed the crowds strolling beneath the vaulted ceilings of the marketplace. The afternoon was advancing; it was time he got back to camp. He had a journey to prepare for, a king to farewell.

Robin cocked his head, a sceptical look on his face.

“Bad example,” he said to Guy, downing the last of his wine. “Because I’m not at all sure I believe that.”

“Typical,” snapped Guy. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Locksley.”

“You could have just defied Vaisey….but look,” Robin held up a placating hand, “you’re right, what do I know?  So just tell me this, then: is she your choice now?”

It was a test, of course; a test of sorts, to see if the past could truly be left where it belonged. Robin waited. Guy dropped his gaze, looking into his wine-cup. But he didn’t need to seek long there for his answer. When he raised his eyes again, there was no trace in them of the Gisborne glare.

“Yes,” he said.

And then, with the assurance of a man who’d found at least one constant in his life, Guy repeated: “Yes. She is.”

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to all those who have followed this story, and who have offered me your support by reading, comments or both. You’re wonderful, it’s been a great experience!


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